Spanish Gold
by Shadowcatxx
Summary: AU. Spain, 1739. When Antonio Carriedo decided to become a pirate, he did so intending to leave Italy behind—all of it. However, his plans soon changed when he found Lovino Vargas—the spoiled scion of a wealthy Italian legacy—stowed-away in his cabin, refusing to be left behind. Antonio shouldn't have let Lovino stay, but he had never been able to tell the boy no.
1. Prologue

**DISCLAIMER:** **Hetalia: Axis Powers** – **Hidekaz Himaruya**

 **SPANISH GOLD**

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Please excuse the incredibly historically-inaccurate use of modern language (insofar as dialogue and description), as well as my taking liberties with some character names & relationships. Please note that _Spanish Gold_ is meant to be a side-story of _Fortune's Favour_ and is set in the same time-period.

ALWAYS practise safe sex.

CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance):

SPAIN — Antonio Fernàndez Carriedo

ROMANO — Lovino Vargas

ITALY — Feliciano Vargas

ROME — Roma Vargas

ENGLAND — Arthur Kirkland

FRANCE — Francis Bonnefoi

AMERICA — Alfred

CANADA — Mathew

* * *

 **PROLOGUE**

 **COAST OF SPAIN**

 **1739**

It was early-morning and bright yellow sunlight filtered in through the diamond-shaped windowpanes, bathing the captain's bed in summer's hot kiss. It licked the young Spaniard's eyelids as he stirred, sighing in wakefulness. He shifted in the single-bed, lying half-naked atop the cotton sheet, and snuggled closer to the slight-figured body next to him. It was warm and comfortable; he felt peaceful. He buried his nose in silky, curling hair that smelled like white-roses, and leaned closer into—

Antonio's emerald-green eyes snapped open in shock.

A beautiful Italian boy was hugging the Spaniard's naked stomach, his slender legs tangled with Antonio's. He was wearing Antonio's threadbare shirt, which was too big for him. It hung off him, exposing the unblemished skin of his shoulders and collarbone; it slipped up as he shifted, revealing a dangerous amount of thigh. Antonio swallowed, suddenly _very_ awake. The boy muttered incoherently in his sleep, his head pillowed on Antonio's chest. The sunlight bathed him like an ecclesiastic motif, making his chocolate-brown hair shine and his skin look gold: he looked like a Roman god. "Mm, Toni..." he murmured sleepily, lips pressed gently to Antonio's skin. His lips were velvety-soft and his breath was hot. His long eyelashes looked like an artist's brushstrokes on his cheeks, quivering as he came slowly back to consciousness. Sighing deeply he opened his eyes, revealing cat-like hazel irises that blinked curiously up at the Spanish captain.

"Lovi, why are you in my bed?"

Lovino pushed himself onto his elbows, fumbling back. "I, uh— I just got cold!" he lied. Too close to the edge, he lost his balance and tumbled to the floor: " _Ach—_!" The Italian's cheeks blushed tomato-red in embarrassment as he rubbed his backside. Antonio chuckled. "D-don't laugh, you bastardo! If it bothers you then you should've just woken me up!" he snapped, eyes downcast.

As Antonio studied the fidgeting boy he couldn't help but feel a surge of tenderness, which he swallowed. _It's not a bother_ , he thought. And that was exactly the problem. _I shouldn't be feeling this way._ Lovino was the eldest son and heir of Antonio's Italian foster-family. They had been raised in the same household together; Antonio could even remember when Lovino was born. _I was ten-years-old_ , _I held him as a baby_. _Cute_ , _but so disagreeable compared to Feliciano. Now he's_ — Antonio inhaled, holding his breath. His eyes watched the boy crawl to his feet, swaying as the ship rocked. Lovino had always been a clumsy boy, needing—but refusing—assistance. Antonio was the only one aside from Feliciano whom Lovino let into his personal-space; the only one allowed to help him. Antonio didn't know why, but he didn't complain. It made him feel special, which was dangerous. _I shouldn't be feeling this way_!

Even so, he reached for Lovino as the boy climbed back into bed. "It's too early to be awake," he grumbled (he was not a morning-person; he valued his sleep).

 _I shouldn't indulge him_ , Antonio knew, pulling the sheet up over Lovino's sun-kissed shoulders. His fingers lingered, toying with an errant curl. _I shouldn't delight in your touch_ , _so naive and gentle and_ —

"Stop it," Lovino muttered, slapping at Antonio's hand. He was already half-asleep, breathing rhythmically.

Lovino had always been quick to anger and quicker to surrender, so non-confrontational in the end. He was the sixteen-year-old scion of an old and noble Italian legacy, pride was in his blood. Sharp-tongued, he would argue rather than do something he considered beneath his station (though Antonio blamed his lack of ambition on laziness more often than not). Stereotypical of Italians, he was hot-blooded and didn't attempt to hide his emotions: he was explosive, but incredibly sensitive. Behind his foul attitude and defense, Lovino was a tender-hearted boy who loved more passionately than anyone Antonio knew. It was what he loved most about him: his unyielding devotion.

The person most favoured by Lovino's loyalty was Feliciano, his younger brother, whom he always protected. The only other person was— _me_.

Antonio sighed helplessly and hung his head. _How did this even happen to me_? he wondered. _This wasn't supposed to happen_. _I was supposed to leave Italy behind forever—all of it._ He glanced down at Lovino's sleeping face. He looked young and vulnerable and Antonio fought the urge to touch him, afraid of the consequences. It had been nearly four years since he had found the Italian boy stowed-away in his cabin: four years of constant stress.

 _You're not even supposed to be here_ , _Lovino_. _It would be so much easier if you weren't._


	2. Chapter One

**DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers** – **Hidekaz Himaruya**

 **SPANISH GOLD**

* * *

 **ONE**

 **CARRIEDO**

 **ROME, ITALY**

 **1735**

But, Antonio, you can't leave, you've only just arrived!" cried Feliciano in an effeminately-high voice. He was a cute boy, with terracotta-coloured hair and pretty amber eyes that shone with pearly tears. He was ten-years-old, but his personality was so flamboyant that Antonio would've guessed younger if he hadn't known the boy since birth. "When will you return?" he asked, hands fisting Antonio's coat.

 _Never_ was the truth, but he wouldn't tell Feliciano that. It was hard enough to leave the boy behind. Instead he knelt down and smiled indulgently at the little Italian, and said: "Once I've made my fortune, of course. I'm going to hunt for Spanish gold, the rarest and most valuable kind!"

Feliciano's eyes widened in wonder and he shrieked happily when Antonio tickled him. He was such a sweet-tempered boy, unlike his sullen twelve-year-old brother.

 _Where is Lovino anyway_? He surveyed the courtyard, white-washed by the noontide sun. Aside from he and Feliciano, his foster-father stood on a stone esplanade. He was the patron of Lovino and Feliciano's noble bloodline, their famous grandfather, who insisted that everyone call him _Grandpa Roma_ (despite his fierce reputation, he was rather friendly and laidback). He was flanked by armoured sentries, whom Antonio eyed wearily. He didn't trust them and suffered intense anxiety when he thought of Lovino and Feliciano left to their protection. He still had nightmares about the horror he had witnessed nine years ago. But the sentries were Italian soldiers sworn to serve Roma's family. They wouldn't dare hurt his grandsons—right? Suddenly Antonio wanted to see Lovino, to prove that he was safe, but the boy was nowhere to be seen. _He's hiding from me in spite_ , _no doubt_.

Lovino had made his feelings about Antonio's departure perfectly clear: "I hate you, you bastardo!" He had shouted, kicked Antonio's shin, and then ran off. That had been two hours ago and Antonio hadn't seen him since.

 _Oh well_ , _perhaps it's better this way. If I don't bid him farewell_ _then I won't have to see him cry_.

He would cherish the memory of Lovino's smiling face as he set sail for Spain. Whenever he thought of him it would be with fondness, not regret: it would be Lovino's chortling laugh and his mischievous hazel eyes.

 _I'll miss him_ , he thought, even as he hugged Feliciano farewell. Lovino had always been a disagreeable child, even as a baby. If Feliciano was sweet-tempered like Italy's climate, then Lovino possessed the ferocity of its long and bloody history. He was rude, and stubborn, and aggressive, and childish— _and I'm going to miss him the most_.

Antonio waved to Feliciano in Roma's arms from the main-deck of his Spanish sloop, _El Escape_. She was a fast ship that cut like a knife through the temperamental Mediterranean, built for stealth and speed, but not for long overseas journeys. For Antonio, she served his purpose well: to escape.

As _El Escape_ left the harbour and his foster-family and childhood home disappeared, Antonio sighed. When the helmsman asked which direction to sail, he gestured west. "The best place to seek Spanish gold is in Spain, don't you think?" he asked, an extension of the joke he had told Feliciano. "I'll leave her to you, I trust your judgement," he told Miguel, the first-mate, clapping the man's shoulder as he passed. "I'll be just a minute."

He headed straight to the captain's cabin, fighting down the tinge of homesickness, which he had never been able to quell. _Not since I was thirteen. Not since Francis left_. Antonio had waited four years after Francis left (he, himself, had left for the first time at seventeen), but he had essentially left for the same reason: _I don't belong in Italy. It's where I was raised but it's not my home._ Lovino and Feliciano had been young and naive: they hadn't known why Antonio had left them, but Roma had understood his feelings. "There's nothing left for me here," he had said. And as much as Roma wished that he would stay, he did, in the end, understand why Antonio needed to leave. "It's time I forged my own path in the world, I can't rely on you forever." (He had, of course, neglected to tell Roma that his _path_ happened to be a life of piracy, plaguing merchant ships and stealing plunder; though, he suspected that the Italian knew more than he let on.) _I'm just another no-good scoundrel_ , Antonio smiled secretly, _no longer the starry-eyed child I once was._

He pushed open the cabin's door—

—and found Lovino leaning out the window, watching Italy's coast shrink in the distance.

" _Lovino_?!" he gasped, staring open-mouthed at the boy.

Lovino pulled his head back in shock. He was dressed like a sailor in clothes that Antonio had never seen on him before: a long-sleeve white shirt, black trousers and boots, with a crimson-red sash tied around his skinny waist. It was ridiculous, the clothes were too big and made him look like a prince playing pauper. _It's a poor disguise_ , Antonio thought, infuriated by the boy's smug grin. His hazel eyes smiled and he crossed his arms in defiant victory. "Welcome aboard, _Capitano_ ," he said.

"No, no, no!" Antonio wagged his finger as he entered the cabin. "You can't be here, Lovino. You have to go back, your family's going to be worried sick when they find you gone!"

"Don't worry, I left them a note," Lovino dismissed. "I told them I was going with you—"

"No, no, no you're not!" Antonio panicked. Fear seized him as he studied the delicate twelve-year-old boy, considering the consequences of kidnapping (as a rule, Captain Carriedo never took hostages) and the dangers of life on the sea. Lovino had never left Italy before and didn't understand the outside world. "You have to go back," Antonio decided, turning quickly on his heel. He reached for the doorknob but, springing suddenly from the window-ledge, Lovino stumbled across the cabin and grabbed him:

"No!" he cried. "I'm not going back, I'm going to Spain with you. I've already made up my mind—"

"It's seems you've made up _my_ mind as well without asking me!" Antonio snapped. His emerald-green gaze glared down at Lovino, conveying more fear than anger. _If anything were to happen to you_ , _Lovino_ , _I would never forgive myself_. "You're your grandfather's heir, born and bred nobility. You have responsibilities. You don't belong here, Lovino! It's too dangerous! You have to go back to Italy—"

"Do you hate me that much?!" Lovino shouted in reply. "Is that why you left?!"

"Of course not, don't be foolish! My reasons for leaving Italy are my own and do not concern you, Lovino Vargas," Antonio lectured. "Now I'm taking you back to your grandfather"—without warning he scooped Lovino into his arms and held him over his shoulder like a sack of grain—"whether you like it or not."

Lovino did _not_ like it. Not one bit. He kicked and pounded on Antonio's back, yelling at the top of his voice as the captain paraded out on-deck. He screamed and struggled and called Antonio names until every crewmember had stopped to watch them. It wasn't quite a rare sight. There wasn't a soul in Southern Italy, noble or peasant, who hadn't witnessed such fights between the Spanish orphan and Italian lordling before. Everyone knew that Lovino Vargas was an undisciplined brat; what they wondered was why Antonio Carriedo—a lovable boy who had become a well-received young man—continued to chase after him. Like a snarling wolf-pup, Lovino nipped Antonio, whose grasp slackened in surprise, and the boy jumped free. He raced across _El Escape_ 's deck, dodging sailors, who moved habitually aside, no more hindered by Lovino's antics than by a seagull's.

"Lovino!" Antonio shouted as the boy's chocolate-brown head disappeared below-deck. He cursed under his breath in Spanish and followed him. At the entrance to the galley the cook nodded inside, then proceeded down the hallway carrying a crate, whistling in disinterest. Antonio clenched his fists in preparation for a verbally-abusive (and potentially physical) battle and entered the galley. "Lovino?" he called. The boy wasn't difficult to find, hiding behind a tomato barrel, sitting against the wall with his knees pulled up to his chest. His face was hidden, buried in his folded arms. It was a defensive position, which surprised Antonio, who had expected an attack. Lovino's slight shoulders, he noted, were trembling.

"Go away," he mumbled when Antonio touched him. "You don't want me anyway."

"That's not true," said Antonio, kneeling beside him. He placed a hand on the boy's shoulder and squeezed gently in reassurance. "If this were a vacation or a tour of the islands I would bring you, Lovino, you know I would. I love your company. I've taken you aboard _El Escape_ before. Do you remember when you and Feliciano and I sailed to Sicily? Even though poor Feliciano got seasick you and I still had fun, didn't we?" Lovino mumbled noncommittally in reply. Antonio continued: "But it's not a vacation this time, chiquito, this time it's real and it's dangerous and you could get muy hurt."

Shyly Lovino lifted his head. His gold-flecked hazel eyes regarded Antonio sadly, and he said: "So could you."

Antonio swallowed a wave of tenderness. The boy's tone was so earnest, containing a note of genuine worry. "Sí," he reluctantly agreed. "But I'm not nearly as important as you."

"You're important to _me_!" Lovino burst. Then, blushing, he added: "You bastardo!" Teary-eyed, he glared at Antonio as if he were the cause of much trepidation. "You just left us, Toni. Since I was seven-years-old you've been leaving without telling anyone when or if you would come back. Francis left and never came back, and, honestly, I was so young that I don't even remember him, but _you_ stayed. You were always there with us, with me." He glanced down, continuing self-consciously: "Feliciano has always been the favourite and that's fine. I love my fratellino, but... you're the only person who ever favoured me. While everyone else was fawning over Feliciano, you were chasing after me. I know I'm difficult," he admitted, blushing deeper, "but you're the only person who gives me just as much attention as Feliciano and I— I like that. That's why I don't want to lose you, Toni. If I go back to Italy now then I'll be the spoiled little lordling who's tolerated but not loved." His stubborn tone had the bite of defense, but it was sad. It whispered to Antonio's yearning heart. "You're the only person who's ever really wanted me for me... I thought. That's why I can't let you go without knowing that you'll come back. You've been with me my whole life," he said angrily. "You can't just leave me now, you jerk!"

"Lovino, I..." He tried to embrace Lovino, but the boy refused:

"If you can look me in the eye and promise that you'll come back to Italy then I'll go home and wait for you," he said in determination. "But if you can't"—he read Antonio's guilty, downcast gaze—"then you'll have to throw me overboard because I'm not leaving this ship. Let Feliciano inherit, everyone will be happier with him anyway. I don't care if I ever go back." That said, Lovino buried his face in protest.

Antonio sighed. "You can't just disinherit yourself."

"I can abdicate," came the mumbled reply.

They sat in silence for almost five minutes while Lovino sulked. Antonio was used to the boy's stubbornness and had learned long ago how to outlast it; patience was the key. It was the reason he alone had always been able to coax Lovino into talking, or apologizing, or studying, or going to mass, or finishing his supper. After Francis had left, Antonio had been the only one with enough patience for the disagreeable boy. He indulged Lovino (like everyone did), but took care of him as well. He had never been the kind of caregiver who gave the boys whatever they wanted to calm a tantrum. _If he stays on_ El Escape _I'll have to take care of him_ , Antonio thought. _He'll be a constant distraction to me._ Despite his pride, Lovino was not someone who liked to be alone. In Italy Antonio had loved to shower the boys with love and attention, _but here_ _I have work to do. I can't be chasing after him day-after-day. I can't give him the attention he wants_ _or the care he deserves._ _He has to go back_.

Finally—as expected—Lovino lifted his head, and said: "This isn't about you, you know. It's about me. It's about _you_ leaving _me_."

Antonio cocked an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Lovino inhaled in preparation and then exhaled a preconceived speech: "I want to leave Italy. I'm not a baby, I want to see the world. And you've been leaving since you were seventeen," he accused, "so you're the right person to take me. You already know how to captain a ship and you have a plan, a coarse set. I'll come with you. I'll even work. I'll be your cabin-boy," he decided. "Just... let me stay."

Antonio wanted to say no. The cons outweighed the pros of letting Lovino sail to Spain (the only pro being: _I love his company and won't miss him if he's here_ ), but Antonio's tongue wouldn't move. He had been scolding Lovino for twelve years, but he had never been able to tell the boy "no". When those long-lashed hazel eyes looked up at him, scared but determined, it tugged at Antonio's heartstrings. _I would give him the whole world if he asked_ , he realized. And he said: "Fine, you can stay. But," he interrupted Lovino's jubilance, "you're going to work. I can't let you lounge about while everyone else is working, understand? This isn't a vacation."

"Sí, I already said I would work," Lovino agreed. His eyes sparkled, smiling.

As Lovino scurried off to the captain's cabin to get comfortable, Antonio heaved a deep sigh. It wasn't exactly the start of the adventure he expected: a daring pirate's life. Babysitting his former foster-brother was certainly not something he had factored into his plans. However, he couldn't help but smile as he followed Lovino. The feeling of homesickness had ebbed significantly since he had found Lovino stowed in his cabin. It would likely only make it harder to leave him when they had to part though, because, of course, Lovino couldn't stay aboard _El Escape_ forever.

 _He'll hate it_ , Antonio prophesized. _Lovino has never worked a day in his life_ , _he's always been catered to. He'll hate living on the ship with me. Once he realizes how much better his life in Italy was he'll beg me to take him back. I just have to keep him safe until then_ —

"Toni!" Lovino suddenly shrieked. He lost his footing and crashed against Antonio's stomach, clawing at the captain's coat. "Stupid waves," he growled, holding the Spaniard for balance.

Antonio sighed, already stressed. _The sooner he realizes he hates it here the better— for both of us._

* * *

 **CORSICA, ITALY**

 **ONE MONTH LATER**

TONI! You bastardo— _let me out_!"

Antonio loaded his dual pistols, ignoring Lovino's irate shouts. " _El Escape_ is a swift, high-keeled ship, she'll catch the Francés ship amongst those shoals," he pointed, relaying instructions to Miguel. The man nodded, equally unperturbed by Lovino's tantrum. They stood in front of the captain's cabin, preparing to attack a merchant ship that was flying the French flag. On the other side Lovino pounded his fists on the door, punching and kicking, but the bolt held firm (Antonio had had it installed specifically to keep Lovino in). As Antonio discarded his heavy coat, he heard a scraping sound clang against the wood. Too focused on his prey to console the boy's injured pride, he opened the door and plucked the long cutlass from Lovino's hands. "Gracias," he said.

"No! Toni, wait! I want to come too!" Lovino hurried.

"NO." Antonio grabbed Lovino around the waist and carried the skinny boy back into the cabin. He dumped him on the bed and quickly retreated. Then he shut the door and bolted it, letting Lovino rage from inside.

Miguel said: "Capitán, if we fire the long-nines to disable the Francés ship's rudder we can—"

"No," Antonio dismissed. "If we fire the cannons then she'll fire back, it's an invitation. I want to stalk her for as long as possible and then take her unaware. _El Escape_ is fast, she'll catch the Francés ship without doubt, taking no damage. I won't risk her"— _or Lovino's_ —"safety."

Miguel glanced at the captain's cabin ("Toni!" Lovino screamed. "Let me out, you bastardo!") and he nodded in understanding. "Sí, señor. Not a single shot."

* * *

I hate you! I hate you! _I hate you_!" Lovino raged when Antonio returned. He took a pillow from the bed and fired it at the Spaniard. "Why did you leave me here?! I wanted to go! I could've helped, err— plunder that ship," he finished uncertainly. Antonio hadn't shared the grittier details of his sea-faring life with Lovino and, though the boy suspected piracy, he wasn't sure how to address it yet. Regardless, he insisted: "I could have done _something_!"

"Sí, you would have done something, Lovino: you would have distracted me," Antonio replied. He pulled off his wet shirt, trading it for a dry one, and re-fasted his belt as the boy watched. "You're not a swordsman," he lectured, "you have no schooling in combat, and I'd bet my boots that you've never fired a pistol in your life. You would've been nothing but a hindrance to me, just a target." Deliberately, he faced the scowling boy. Antonio was of average-height, which was taller than Lovino, whose adolescent body was shaping into a modelesque figure as he grew. He was pretty and privileged but not strong. Despite that, Lovino planted his hands on his hips and returned Antonio's stare without yielding, like the lordling he was. "When I agreed to let you stay aboard," said Antonio sternly, _"_ you promised that you would work under _my_ command, yet you've done nothing but sleep on-deck, steal vegetables from the galley, and get under-foot. It's been a month and you haven't even learned to sail, Lovino. You haven't learned anything!"

"That's because _you_ haven't taught me anything," Lovino countered. He lifted his chin in challenge. "You've barely spoken to me since I got here, you—"

"I'm busy! I told you that a month ago. I've ordered Miguel to teach you to sail, why haven't you listened to anything he's said?"

"Because he's not _you_ ," Lovino emphasized. "You said it yourself: I'm under _your_ command, not his. I _am_ a noble after all. I won't take orders from anyone except you, Toni."

"You're a spoiled brat, is what you are," said Antonio flatly. Sighing in defeat, he combed a hand through his black-brown hair, which was wind-tossed.

"Teach me swordsmanship, I want to learn," said Lovino eagerly. "I'm good with my hands, I'll learn fast."

 _Yes_ , Antonio thought, _you're good at calligraphy and sculpting and braiding rose-stems_ , _but your hands are not fashioned for combat_. Lovino's hands were delicate and slight-fingered, more apt at intricate work; he was artful but weak. _How do I tell him without insulting his pride_? he wondered. _Even if he does learn_ _the technique_ , _I'll never let him on-deck to fight_. But, again, Antonio found himself agreeing to instruct Lovino in swordsmanship, too captivated by the boy's innocence and those beautiful hazel eyes. "We'll start tomorrow before breakfast—"

"Before breakfast—?!"

"Sí, it's the only free time I have. It's before breakfast or nothing. Do you want to learn?"

"Sí," Lovino grumbled unhappily. "I want to learn."

* * *

The next morning—before breakfast—Antonio roused Lovino from a deep, restful sleep. "Lovino. Lovino, get up," he said, shaking the boy's shoulder. Lovino's bed consisted of an eiderdown mattress on a wood-framed cot piled with pillows, located opposite Antonio's bed. Lovino moaned groggily as Antonio shook him, pulling a blanket up over his head in defense. "Mm... no, go away," he murmured, half-asleep. "S'too early."

"Lovino, I'm muy busy. If you're going to sleep until noon then I can't teach you today. I'll ask Miguel or Jorge to do it instead. They might have time this afternoon—"

"No, no. I'm here, I'm getting up," Lovino forced himself onto his elbows, blinking in disorientation. "I'm not taking orders from a— _yawn—_ second-in-command. I'm a— _yawn_ —lord, you know."

Antonio helped Lovino into a jacket and led him out on-deck. It was a quiet morning, few sailors maintaining the ship's course as the captain and lordling climbed to the topmost deck. Lovino stretched up his arms, reaching high overhead; the motion lifted his half-buttoned shirt, revealing soft skin. He was young and inexperienced, he had been protected all his life: there wasn't a single blemish or scar disfiguring his body. But he took the slim épée that Antonio handed him and slashed with gusto. He was unafraid of pain, perhaps because he had never really experienced it. He wielded the sword like a whip, swinging it in small arcs as he jumped and dodged, falling sideways as the ship pitched. He crashed against the bulkhead and clumsily slid down. " _Ow_!" he complained, waving his injured hand. Upon closer inspection, Antonio could see that a sliver had lodged itself beneath his skin.

"Come here," he said. He sat on a bench and gestured for Lovino, who apprehensively sat down beside him. "Let me see it. Oh, it's just a scratch," he reassured, holding Lovino's hand palm-up. "I'll get it out, don't move."

"What are you doing?" Lovino asked, eyeing the knife that Antonio removed from his belt.

"It's alright," said Antonio, unsheathing the knife. Lovino's voice was even, but his body was tense. His hazel eyes stared unblinkingly at the knife. "Relax, Lovi, I'm not going to hurt you. I promise."

Lovino held his breath as Antonio skillfully inserted the knife's tip and cut a shallow exit for the sliver in the boy's soft fingertip. Then, disregarding the bead of blood, Antonio lifted Lovino's finger to his mouth and sucked.

"W-what are you doing—?!" Lovino repeated in shock, pulling slightly.

Antonio held him firmly in place. A few seconds later he removed Lovino's finger from his mouth and easily pulled out the sliver, which had been brought to the surface. "See? It's nothing to worry about," he said, cleaning his saliva off Lovino's finger with his sleeve. He blinked, however, when Lovino snatched his hand back, holding it self-consciously against his chest. His hazel eyes were big in disbelief and his face was flushed. It confused Antonio, who stood and distanced himself from the flustered boy. He collected the épée, and said: "Should we continue the lesson?"

* * *

 **VARGAS**

Antonio taught Lovino how to properly hold and manipulate the épée's lightweight. He held Lovino's wrist and guided his movements, letting the boy familiarize himself with the feel. He repositioned Lovino's stance, teaching him: "Keep your back straight and stand sideways, you're a smaller target that way. Keep your stomach tucked in. Angle your hips just so," he said, taking liberties with Lovino's posture. "That's good, Lovi, but you need to relax. You're muy tense. You've always been an agile boy— remember when I taught you and Feliciano to dance? You were a natural. Combat is just like dancing, you move in the same way." He placed his hands on Lovino's hips and repositioned him. Antonio's hands were always warm, callused from combat and gardening (he had loved to work in Rome's gardens). "Keep your legs spread, but don't straddle. Your footwork is important, otherwise you'll"—the ship hit a frothy wave and Lovino fell back against Antonio, who caught him in reflex—"fall," the Spaniard finished. "You haven't got your sea-legs yet," he teased, supporting Lovino with those strong hands.

"Oh," said Lovino inelegantly.

Since his finger had been enveloped by Antonio's sensual lips, Lovino's heart had not stopped pounding and, despite the breeze, he felt uncomfortably hot. _Why do I feel like this_? he wondered, struck with sudden claustrophobia in Antonio's embrace. In twelve years the Spaniard's closeness had never bothered the Italian; he had always felt safe and comforted by Antonio's gentle touch. Antonio had always fashioned himself as Lovino and Feliciano's protector, a big-brother who chased off nightmares and held them when they cried. Since the Italians hadn't had parents present, the Spaniard's touch had always felt rather maternal. _So what changed_? Lovino thought in puzzlement. _Was it me_? _Is this what growing-up feels like_? Is that why he couldn't stop thinking about the feel of Antonio's slick tongue against his skin? It took him off-guard, scaring him. So he did what felt natural: he started a fight by shoving Antonio off and calling him "bastardo". He tried to focus on the épée, but fumbled it. It clattered to the deck and, when Antonio bent to retrieve it for him, Lovino snapped: "Don't! I can do it myself! I don't need you to mother me!"

"Al-right," Antonio ceded. "Maybe we should quit for today. You've done well, Lovi. Let's go have breakfast."

"No!" Lovino dodged Antonio's touch, his praise. "I— I'm not hungry."

Lovino thrust the épée into Antonio's hand and then hurried downstairs, feeling hot. He closed himself in the captain's cabin and went to the window-ledge where he liked to sit. He pulled his legs to his knees and looked out at the bright, shining water. It was going to be a beautiful day in the Mediterranean, jewel-blue water and clear skies, but Lovino felt uneasy. He hugged his stomach, which fluttered funnily. And it wasn't because he was hungry.

* * *

 **COAST OF SPAIN**

 **FIVE MONTHS LATER**

No, you're not leaving me here! Not again! I've been practising really hard to— _Toni_!"

Lovino reached the cabin's door just as Antonio slammed the deadbolt into place. He tugged at the doorknob but it was locked; it barely rattled as he pounded on it. "Toni! Open up the fucking door!" he yelled, clenching his fists. _El Escape_ had caught the ship she was chasing—an English ship called _The Rose_ —and was preparing for engagement. Lovino could hear the pirate crew shouting in excitement, adrenaline and the promise of plunder heating their blood: swords drawn and guns loaded. A big ship like _The Rose_ would, hopefully, be carrying a big cargo; it might be worth retirement for several crewmembers. But Lovino didn't care about the cargo or the pirates or even the fight itself. He only cared about _El Escape_ 's green-eyed captain, who had strapped on his cutlass, loaded his pistols, locked the door, and left Lovino alone in a panic. _Why did you teach me swordsmanship if you were never going to let me fight_? he thought angrily. _Why are you keeping me locked in here_ , _don't you trust me_?

 _If anything happens to you_ , _Toni_ , _I don't know what I'll do_. Lovino felt sick just thinking about it.

"Antonio, please!" he begged, feeling desperate. "Don't leave me in here!"

Antonio was a talented swordsman and he chose his battles wisely, but something about today felt different. It might've been paranoia or intuition, but today Lovino was afraid for Antonio's life. _The Rose_ was huge compared to _El Escape_ and her long-nines were deafening as they fired. The power of those guns scared Lovino, who grabbed the sideboard as the sloop trembled. The thought of Antonio facing those guns made him shout and pound on the cabin's door, bruising his fists. The Spaniard was a careful fighter but battles were chaotic and anything could happen: a stray bullet, or a two-on-one attack, or a well-aimed cannon-ball and Antonio could die.

 _If only you would let me go with you_! Lovino clenched his teeth in regret. _I could guard your back_ , _I could protect you the way you always protect me_.

 _El Escape_ crashed violently into _The Rose_ and Lovino lost his balance. He struggled to his feet, holding the sideboard. _Is this why you don't trust me_? he berated himself. _Is it because I'm clumsy and afraid_? The Italian had never been good at faking his emotions. He couldn't pretend to be happy when he was feeling sad, and he couldn't pretend to be brave when he was terrified. It sounded hollow to his ears (which is why he hated liars). If nothing else he was always honest with himself, and right now he honestly feared for Antonio's life.

"Toni, please wait! Don't go!" he cried one last time. He could hear Antonio's voice on the other side of the door. It grew faint as he moved away, ignoring Lovino's plea. "Please don't board that ship," he told the empty room. In defeat he pressed his forehead against the door and slid to his knees. "Please don't leave me alone..."

Lovino stayed like that for a long time, listening as the battle raged outside. Every gunshot and cannon-fire sounded lethal in his mind and, though he tried not to picture it, he couldn't stop seeing Antonio's bloody corpse. _Toni is too nice a person_ , _he wouldn't hurt anyone. He's good— he can't die_! Lovino leaned against the door and closed his eyes, then folded his hands and prayed: "Please don't let Toni die. Please protect him. I can't lose him, he's all I have. He's the only person who's ever really cared about me. I'll do anything, please— just keep him safe." When _El Escape_ caught fire, Lovino couldn't help it: he cried. He let hot tears fall from his eyes and he prayed harder, talking faster. Outside, men screamed and died; guns fired and smoke scented the air; a burning mast fell with a resounding crash. _I'm so scared_ , he thought shamefully. What would he do if Antonio didn't return? _What will happen to me_? _Will I be held hostage_ : _ransomed_ , _raped_ , _shot_? _Will they cast me overboard and let me drown_? _Toni_ , _where are you_?! It was embarrassing, cowardly, but Lovino felt completely lost without Antonio beside him; without the Spaniard's soothing voice and gentle touch; without the protection of those strong, callused hands. _I need you here with me_. _I want you here with me. Please come back to me—_

 _I love you_ , he thought innocently, honestly. Feliciano and Antonio were the only people whom Lovino Vargas truly loved. _I can't lose you_.

* * *

 **CARRIEDO**

You chose the wrong fucking ship, you scallywag!" said the Englishman, slashing skillfully.

 _No shit_ , Antonio thought, dodging the attack. He leapt back, delving into his reservoir of dance skills to keep his balance. He swung around and drove his long cutlass at his opponent. The green-eyed Englishman was young (the same age as Antonio) and not wearing a coat or any symbols denoting his status, but Antonio knew that he was _The Rose'_ s captain. It wasn't just the Englishman's sword skills, nor even the orders he shouted at his crew, but rather the way he attacked Antonio so self-confidently; so entitled. _This man knows exactly who he is_ , Antonio thought in envy. _He's not a renegade_ , _he has a job to do_ : _he has a future_. "Ah—!" _And a sharp fucking blade_. The Englishman's sword cut into Antonio's side, slicing effortlessly through his flesh. It nicked a rib, splattering blood. Antonio gasped and fell to his knees.

The Englishman's blood-freckled face grinned. "On your knees, you Spanish-rat," he said. "Best regards from the Royal Navy!"

Antonio clenched his sword and clumsily parried the attack as he dove sideways. _Fuck_! He crawled to his feet and escaped into the cannon-smoke, which covered him. He clenched his teeth, clutching his ribs. _Goddamn English_! he thought as he cut-down a redcoat. _Goddamn Royal Navy_! _If we live through this_ , _I'm going to kill Miguel_! He saw the English captain on the other side of the smoke-screen, searching for him. Antonio could risk it and attack him, but if he failed to disarm the Englishman then his opponent would have the advantage. _But if I don't_ , _if my ship is caught by the Royal Navy they'll find Lovino_! _They'll think he's a pirate and they'll—_! A wave of adrenaline overwhelmed the Spaniard and he momentarily saw red. Suddenly he felt hot and destructive. He growled in rage and pushed himself forward, slashing-out offensively. He let go of his ribs and armed himself with a pistol, which fired indiscriminately. _I'll kill you_ , _you fucking English-dog_! _I won't let you take Lovino from me_!

But the Englishman was gone; he had moved on. Antonio spotted him at the helm, surveying the battlefield. He gestured to his first-mate, relaying instructions. _What is he—_? Then Antonio saw it too: his crew was surrounded by the redcoats, who had taken-up strategic positions.

Logic said: "We've got to retreat!"

Miguel said: "We've got to retreat!"

But Antonio's sight was focused on the English captain and bloodlust urged him onward. _I'll kill him_! _I'll kill him_! he thought relentlessly, shouldering off Miguel's hands. "Let go of me! I'll kill him!" he shouted.

"No! It's not worth it, you'll die!" Miguel argued, grabbing at Antonio. "Capitán, we've got to retreat!"

Antonio struggled, watching the smug Englishman—who's face suddenly fell. Without warning he leapt from the above-deck and raced down the stairs, shoving people out of the way as he fought toward the captain's cabin. "Get the fuck out of my way!" he yelled. Antonio followed his gaze and saw a big, black-haired pirate— _is that Leonardo_?—enter the cabin. A gunshot exploded from inside, but it didn't perturb the Englishman. He looked different somehow, no longer the self-confident strategist Antonio had faced only minutes before. No longer so sure of himself. Now he looked— _desperate_. As Antonio considered the change, Miguel and Jorge managed to drag him back.

"Retreat!" Miguel ordered the pirates. "Let's go— _El Escape_ is burning!"

Antonio whipped around so fast that he nearly lost his balance. Sure enough, the sloop's mast had caught fire and was burning bright, belching black smoke into the clear, blue sky. _Lovino_! And suddenly nothing else mattered: not the ship, or the crew, or the plunder. Antonio's dizzy head filled with thoughts of the helpless Italian boy locked in his cabin and fear stabbed him sharper than the Englishman's blade.

 _Lovino_ , _I'll protect you_! _I won't let you get hurt_ , _I promise_!

Without realizing it, Antonio was running for _El Escape_ , screaming: "Retreat! Back to the ship— _now_!"

* * *

 **VARGAS**

When Lovino finally heard Antonio's voice, he leapt to his feet. His first thought was: _Toni's alive_! His second thought was: _I'm going to kill him_! Which is why, when the cabin's door opened, revealing Antonio, Lovino lunged at him and punched him straight in the nose. "You fucking bastardo!" he shouted, red-eyed and fuming.

" _Ah_ , Lovino!" Antonio scolded, pinching the bridge of his nose. Blood seeped down but Lovino didn't feel a shred of guilt, only anger at being abandoned. Rage replaced fear now that the danger had passed and _El Escape_ was seeking safety in a nearby bay. Seeing Antonio alive overwhelmed Lovino with both relief and rage. He felt aggressive as the Spaniard kicked the door closed and advanced on him, asking curtly: "What the heck was that for?"

Lovino flushed tomato-red. "You know exactly what: you locked me in here!" he yelled in accusation. "You strapped on your guns and your sword and then just left me here! I wanted to go! I'm not a child," he insisted, teary-eyed and stomping his foot. "I can fight just as well as you can! Look!" In determination he grabbed the handle of the big cutlass strapped to Antonio's belt. He tried to pull it from the sheath in one quick, fluid motion, but the sword was unexpectedly heavier than the épée he practiced with and the floor beneath Antonio was wet. Lovino slipped and fell face-first against the Spaniard's stomach. Antonio gasped sharply in pain, which surprised Lovino, who pushed himself off. "What's wrong? Hey— y-you're bleeding!" he said, hating the catch in his voice. Antonio's shirt was torn and his ribs had been brutally slashed. Lovino reached forward, but Antonio fended off his hands and forced a smile:

"It's just a scratch," he lied. He was pale-faced and sweating.

Lovino's eyes narrowed in disbelief as Antonio crossed the cabin. It was hard to watch, but the Spaniard's disregard for himself only fueled Lovino's fury. "No it's not, you're injured you stupid bastardo. You're going to bleed-out and die. And I don't even care," he added, feigning indifference, "because then I'll become captain of this ship." He cocked his hip and folded his arms arrogantly, trying to hide his feelings, but his eyes betrayed fear. He watched Antonio's injured side, analyzing it as the captain lowered himself onto his bed.

"Is that so? Well at least I know she'll be in good hands," he teased. Then hissed softly in pain.

"I hope it hurts," Lovino continued, watching Antonio peel off his bloody coat and shirt. "That's what you get for locking me in here and leaving me behind. I could have saved you. It serves you right."

"Sí, it probably does— _ah_!"

"Oddio, you're so fucking _stupid_!" Lovino spat, stomping over. He helped Antonio into a more comfortable position and then fetched a basin of water, linen bandages, and a medicine box. He pouted as he cleaned the Spaniard's beautiful sun-browned skin, ghosting gently over his injured ribs. His heart was pounding hard. "It's just a flesh-wound, but it'll fester if I don't stitch it." Despite his attitude, Lovino knew that he wasn't strong. He didn't need a test of strength to tell him that his hands were weak. Roma had called his hands _artistic_ and taught he and Feliciano to appreciate the arts: calligraphy, painting, sculpting, music, and wine-making. He had taught them how to cultivate flowers and how to stitch fine fabrics. The man's rich tastes had taught them luxury, not survival. _I might not be able to wield a sword_ , he admitted to himself, _but I can still take care of you_ , _Toni._ Needing no instruction, Lovino took a needle from the medicine box and began to stitch the bloody flaps of Antonio's skin back together, as if he was stitching delicate silk. He hated to see Antonio's face contorted in pain. It was such a handsome face. The girls had always loved Antonio and often swooned over him. _And why shouldn't they_? The Spaniard was tall and roped in lean-muscle; his face was well-sculpted, yet kind. He had cherub curls that hung haphazardly into emerald-green eyes that sparkled like jewels. _He'd make a beautiful painting subject_ , Lovino thought he flushed and bowed his head, working deftly as he stitched his foster-brother's wound. He didn't know why he felt so embarrassed by the thought of Antonio's body. Everyone else thought that Antonio was attractive— why couldn't he?

"Stop staring at me," he mumbled, feeling hot beneath Antonio's gaze. He could feel Antonio's scrutinizing eyes on him, watching him work. "You're lucky that I'm here, otherwise you'd already be dead."

"You're not _supposed_ to be here, you little stowaway." Antonio's fingers toyed with Lovino's curling hair, like when he was young (he used to love letting Antonio comb his hair before bed). He smiled affectionately down at the boy, as if he wasn't injured; as if he hadn't nearly lost his life fighting the Royal Navy by accident. It angered Lovino, who despised the lie on Antonio's face. He slapped the Spaniard's hand:

"Stop smiling! Do you think this is funny, you bastardo!" He pulled the needle from Antonio's skin and cut the stitch in completion. As he collected the tools, cleaning them off, his hands trembled and he couldn't make them stop. "You jerk," he said more softly. He tried to quell the hurt in his heart but it bubbled-up unexpectedly. "You could've died and you don't even care. Is that why you locked me in here?" _You're selfish_ , _Toni_! _I hate that you risk your life so recklessly_! He felt tears prick his eyes but couldn't hold back. "Is that why you won't let me do anything or go anywhere—?!" A tear fell, but before Lovino could wipe it off Antonio pulled him into a hug. "Let go!" he fought the Spaniard. "You stupid, fucking bastardo, let go! I hate you!" Desperately he clutched Antonio's shoulders, hugging him tightly. "You would've just died and left me here alone! Like you would've left me behind in Italy! You don't care about me— you've _never_ cared!"

Antonio held him, resting his cheek atop Lovino's head as the boy raged. He was so kind-hearted, so patient. Even when Lovino was being completely unreasonable, Antonio always hugged him; he always put Lovino's happiness first. Even on the coldest days, Antonio's skin was sunshine-warm; it was strong and inviting. Lovino buried his head beneath the Spaniard's chin, seeking comfort. Antonio's body was so familiar to him, yet the boy felt his heart flutter. _I love you_ , he thought more intensely than before. Instead he closed his eyes, and whispered: "I hate you."

Antonio said: "I know."


	3. Chapter Two

**DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers** – **Hidekaz Himaruya**

 **SPANISH GOLD**

* * *

 **TWO**

 **CARRIEDO**

Days became weeks, weeks became months, and months became two years of long, stressful days and sleepless nights. Antonio learned how to multitask like a circus-performer, juggling his responsibilities as _El Escape_ 's captain, avoiding capture, and teaching and protecting Lovino. He spent countless hours arguing with the boy, forcing him into a routine: forcing him to study languages, religion, and mathematics while trying to maintain order and discipline aboard a pirate ship: forcing Lovino to perform his duties aboard the ship, while trying to avoid any future encounters with the Royal Navy. Lovino fought Antonio on nearly everything the Spaniard tried to teach. He hated studying, but he wasn't unintelligent. In fact, the boy was incredibly gifted at languages and memorization, and was an eloquent writer when he actually focused. He continued to sleep-in late, needing Antonio to wake him for early-morning fencing lessons, after which they would eat breakfast together and then indulge in an afternoon siesta. Once, Antonio awoke to find himself cradling Lovino on the topmost deck, lounging in the sunlight, swords lying harmlessly beside them. The crew never intervened and rarely questioned Antonio's choice to keep Lovino, which he was grateful for. In truth, Antonio didn't have an answer.

It had been two years since he had left Italy with Lovino on-board, yet nobody had ever come after him. He supposed that Roma trusted Antonio to keep Lovino safe, which only made the Spaniard feel worse. It was selfish of him—every day aboard _El Escape_ put Lovino at risk—but, despite the stress, Antonio couldn't help how fortunate he felt just to be with the Italian. He hadn't expected Lovino to stay so long, but he seemed perfectly happy with his new sea-faring lifestyle. He had adjusted to it surprisingly well, proving the adaptability of Italian blood.

As for Antonio, he was loathe to admit that he didn't want to let Lovino go. He was afraid of the loneliness that would consume him if he did. _When_ , _not if_ , he chastised himself. Absently he clutched the cross that hung around his neck (a childhood gift from Roma). _I can't keep him_ , _he's not mine. Someday soon he has to go back_.

* * *

 **COAST OF SPAIN**

 **1738**

Bien, Lovino! That's muy bueno!" Smiling, Antonio dodged the épée's attack, parrying the blow with his cutlass. He stepped back, heels kicking the bulkhead as he retreated from Lovino's advance. The boy followed, pushing him back until Antonio felt the mast at his back. He dodged to the left, but the épée's blade blocked him: fast and agile, just like its wielder. Lovino's lithe body moved like a dancer's, making a flourish of a feint and a climax of an attack; it struck Antonio as artful, beautiful. He stabbed the épée at the Spaniard, avoiding the cutlass' half-hearted slash, and stopped it inches from biting Antonio's exposed neck. Shirtless, Antonio dropped the cutlass and surrendered his hands. "I yield," he said, smiling proudly.

Lovino lowered his sword in acceptance. He was sweating and panting and smiling from ear-to-ear. It was a beautiful, honest smile, the kind reaped by hard work and self-accomplishment. He hollered in victory, sheathing the épée for safekeeping. "I beat you!" he shouted, pointing at Antonio. "I told you: I've been practising really hard and it just fucking paid-off! Ah ha! You should see the stupid look on your face, Toni!" He laughed loudly, lightheartedly, unbothered by the attention that his antics drew from the crew. They rolled their eyes or shook their heads, smiling indulgently or in annoyance, but no one interrupted. They left Antonio to deal with Lovino, who was as insufferable a winner as he was a sore-loser.

"Congratulations, chiquito." Bowing playfully, Antonio took Lovino's hand and kissed it. "I have nothing left to teach you. It seems those dancing lessons paid off a lot more than the combat lessons," he joked, provoking the boy.

Lovino's face revealed shock, then displeasure. "Wha—? Hey, I'm an excellent combatant!"

"Sí, but a better dancer. Show me."

Before Lovino could protest, Antonio grabbed his waist and, holding him nearly chest-to-chest, began to spin him around to a phantom rhythm. He held Lovino's left hand in his right and stepped deliberately forward, forcing the boy back. Lovino grabbed Antonio's shoulder for balance, taken off-guard by the Spaniard's sudden invitation. But his feet knew the steps and, habitually, he let Antonio lead him around the deck in circles. It was Antonio's favourite dance: intimate and fast-paced. He laughed as the shock on Lovino's face melted into concentration, then joy. "This is a muy better dance to learn than swordplay, don't you think?" he said, supporting Lovino as he dipped him low. "It's more enjoyable and"—he leaned down, inches from Lovino's face—"has a more thrilling finale."

"Oh, get off," Lovino complained, turning his blushing face away. He shoved Antonio, who kissed his cheek. "What was that for?" Lovino asked, deliberately rubbing it off.

Antonio cocked his index-finger in secrecy, annoying the boy. He couldn't help it: he loved the flustered look on Lovino's face. Others might have considered the Italian's short-temper ungentlemanly, but Antonio found it cute. In fact, the less endearing the boy's attitude became to everyone else, the cuter Antonio thought he was. _He's grown-up so much in such a short time. He's seen and done things that he never would've experienced if he had stayed in Italy. He should've gone back months ago_ , he thought for the umpteenth time, _but I'm glad he didn't. We're playing on borrowed time_ , _but I'm glad he wants to stay here with me._ The two-years ago Antonio wouldn't have recognized the spoiled lordling whom he had scolded for stowing-away; Lovino had changed a lot since then. Antonio wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't witnessed it himself. Not only physically. There was a certain fearlessness about Lovino now, which both worried and excited Antonio equally. The boy was still proud and lazy and stole from the galley, but his understanding of the world had grown. Every day that Lovino spent aboard _El Escape_ he became less the naive child whom Antonio had loved, and more a cocky, fiery-tempered teenager whom he was afraid to love. Even now as he watched Lovino fan himself with his hand, letting the sea breeze tug at his chocolate-brown hair, sunlight kissing his beautiful skin, Antonio thought: _He's going to be such a pistol someday. And then I'll be in serious trouble_.

It already scared him when he caught himself staring for too long at the young boy: his foster-brother, the scion of a powerful, noble house. _He's not for me_ , he scolded himself, _soon he has to go back._

But not today. And not tomorrow.

"Tomorrow is your fifteenth birthday," he told Lovino, as if the boy didn't know (as if Lovino hadn't been reminding everyone for a week that his birthday was coming). "We'll dock in Barcelona and go into the city. I'll buy you whatever you want as a present," he offered indulgently.

Lovino grinned like a satisfied cat. He loved presents. "Can we go to a tavern?" he asked hopefully.

"No, you're too young."

"But I'll be fifteen at midnight!"

"Too young," Antonio repeated firmly. It was an argument that he refused to yield. Teenager or not, he didn't want Lovino naively parading into a crowded city tavern like the prideful lordling he was. He would undoubtedly get taken advantage of, especially if drunk. He was afraid that Lovino would develop a taste for wine (like Francis had at fourteen-years-old) and get himself into trouble. Not that Antonio habitually refused a drink when offered, and it wasn't as if Lovino had never tasted alcohol before (he drank wine every night at supper), but Antonio was determined to wait to indulge Lovino until the boy's street-smarts had considerably sharpened. Otherwise he would get preyed upon like a victim and Antonio would have to save him. In truth, he was afraid of what he might do if he found Lovino in such a dangerous or compromising position.

In appeasement, he said: "I'll take you somewhere else, Lovi. A place I know you'll like."

* * *

That night, as Lovino undressed, Antonio kept his eyes plastered modestly to the floor. He tugged off his shirt and sat down on his bed, which faced the starboard wall. He flinched, however, when the feather-mattress sunk beneath the boy's added weight. "Err... what are you doing, chiquito?" he asked cautiously.

Lovino shrugged beneath an improperly-buttoned shirt, stark-naked from the knees down. He looked like a fairytale heroine, so innocent and defenceless. "I don't want to wake up alone on my birthday," he admitted, avoiding eye-contact. He blushed—and Antonio's heart skipped a beat. _He's so beautiful_ , he thought. He loved Lovino's heated tomato-red face. "Toni," he said, crawling over the bed, sitting on his knees. He toyed with his sleeves, which were too long (Antonio recognized his old shirt). "Can I... sleep with you tonight?"

Antonio swallowed; clenched his hands in his lap. "You're not alone," he said, shifting sideways. "Your bed is right there, barely five-feet away." He stopped when Lovino's tongue poked out, licking his lips nervously. He looked like a lost wolf-pup— _Oh Dios_ , _he's so cute_!—which tested Antonio's self-restraint. He dug his fingernails into his skin. He wanted more than anything to hug the boy like he used to, holding him as he slept, but he was afraid that it would feel different now. _I shouldn't be feeling this way_ , he worried, unable to tear his eyes off the pleading boy. _He's not a helpless child anymore_ , _he's almost an adult. And I'm not his foster-brother anymore._ A feeling stirred in the pit of his stomach, urging him to grab the boy and hug him, kiss him, push him down and— _NO_! But he couldn't say "no" to Lovino, especially not when the boy asked him for something so earnestly. Slowly Antonio exhaled, forcing himself to relax. If he let Lovino into his bed tonight he knew that he wouldn't get a wink of sleep. Unconsciously, Lovino and Feliciano had always liked to snuggle. They ignored personal boundaries and became incredibly affectionate when they were asleep. If he agreed, Antonio knew that he would spend the whole night trying to restrain himself from touching Lovino inappropriately (he would caress him, maybe kiss him—he was afraid of his own weakness), but that didn't stop him from saying: "Sí, of course you can, chiquito."

Lovino relaxed in relief and crawled beneath the blankets. He pushed his face into a pillow and, with a sleepy smile, he said: "Grazie, Toni."

He was sound-asleep within minutes, breathing rhythmically. He looked so peaceful, so beautiful in the pale moonlight. Antonio pulled the blanket up over Lovino's bared shoulder, tucking him in so that a blanket-barrier laid between he and the unsuspecting boy. Only then did Antonio risk crawling onto the bed beside him. He leaned against the headboard, half-sitting as he stared thoughtfully out the window. He sat like that for a long time, until the moon reached its peak in the sky. Then, at midnight, he leaned down and pressed a feather-soft kiss to Lovino's cheek.

"Feliz cumpleaños, mi tesoro."

* * *

 **VARGAS**

 **BARCELONA, SPAIN**

 **17 MARCH 1738**

Lovino awoke emitting a soft sigh of contentment, feeling peaceful. He had slept well, as usual (he could sleep almost anywhere), but he always slept best with someone beside him. In Italy he and Feliciano slept together because neither of them liked to sleep alone, but aboard _El Escape_ he usually slept alone in his bed. Antonio, who liked the closeness as much as the Italians did, had stopped letting Lovino sleep with him last year, which had surprised and confused the boy. The only explanation Antonio had given was: "You're almost fourteen, you've got to learn to sleep alone at night," which had displeased the almost-fourteen-year-old. But Antonio's tone had held a pinch of disapproval, which made Lovino feel childish for wanting a bedmate. It wasn't so bad, though. At least Antonio hadn't banished him from the captain's cabin; the two beds stood barely five-feet apart. On rare occasions when Antonio fell asleep before Lovino, the boy would lie in his bed listening to the Spaniard's rhythmic breaths, feeling comforted by Antonio's presence. He had been shy about asking Antonio to share his bed last night, nervous even, but relieved when Antonio had agreed. Lovino wasn't afraid or lonely: sleeping beside Antonio just felt _better_.

Lovino squeezed his eyes before opening them, rousing slowly. His head was pillowed on Antonio's stomach, who was half-sitting against the headboard, dead-asleep. He hadn't undressed before coming to bed (he had removed his boots, that's all), nor had he crawled under the bed-sheets; it looked like an uncomfortable position. Gently Lovino reached up and swept back the Spaniard's thick black-brown hair, wanting to see his whole face. _You asked me what I wanted for my birthday_ , he thought, touching Antonio's cheek. _I want you_. _I want you to spend the whole day with me like you used to_ , _Toni_. _You've been so busy lately_ , _you've barely had time for yourself let alone me. Maybe it's selfish of me_ , he considered, but the lordling didn't care. He wouldn't lie to himself: he knew exactly what he wanted. _I want your full attention today. I don't want you to look at or talk to or think about anyone except me. I want you to spoil me. I want you to make me feel special today_.

Carefully Lovino crawled out of the bed, letting Antonio sleep. He got himself cleaned and dressed in red and black, trying to look like he wasn't trying to look his best. Half-an-hour later, Antonio woke. Lovino was sitting on the window-ledge, spying on the port of Barcelona, but he perked-up when he heard Antonio yawn. It was a long, deep sound, which made Lovino laugh (in secret, of course). He jumped off the ledge and hurried to the bedside, folding his arms and cocking his hip. In a disapproving tone, he said: "Are you going to sleep all day, Toni? You promised to take me into the city. I want my present!" he whined. "Come on, get up!"

As Antonio splashed his face with water and got dressed, yawning tiredly, Lovino discretely inspected his appearance in the wall-mirror. He fixed his silky chocolate-brown hair, ensuring that it lay perfectly atop his head, and then smiled in satisfaction. He had always known that he was an attractive boy; people, including Antonio, had been telling he and Feliciano so since they were children. But Feliciano wasn't here today; today was about Lovino. He was excited, but anxious as well. He felt impatient as he waited for Antonio, who still looked half-asleep. The way he moved reminded Lovino of a cat stretching sluggishly in the sunlight, pulling those deliciously defined muscles taut. Lovino watched Antonio's reflection in the mirror. His stomach flipped, but he was unable to look away. He watched Antonio strap on his pistols, which completed his outfit, and then he finally let Lovino pull him out on-deck. Lovino smiled when Antonio told his crew that he wouldn't be back until after sunset because he was taking the boy into the city for his birthday (several crew-members wished Lovino happiness and good-luck for his birthday). Antonio left Miguel in charge and then, placing his hand on Lovino's shoulder to guide him, they descended the gangplank.

Barcelona was a big, bustling port full of activity. It was loud and crowded and harassed Lovino's senses, not unlike Rome on a holiday. The sun was hot and bright and bathed the city streets in a pleasant golden glow. As Lovino walked he caught the eye of several people, especially vendors, who called-out to him in encouragement. They smiled at him and complimented him, hoping that he would stop. Lovino knew that it was superficial, but he enjoyed the attention; it felt good. He hadn't been an aristocrat for over two years, having to hide his identity whenever they left the ship; he hadn't been able to act like a rich and privileged lord for too long and he was taking advantage of it now. Antonio kept close to him, like a bodyguard. He tried to act casual, but his hand hovered protectively close to Lovino, ready to grab him in case of danger. Lovino pretended not to notice, even though it made him feel happy and safe.

"Hey Toni, look at this!" he said in excitement. He stopped in front of a shop-window, pressing his fingertips against the glass. Inside sat a beautifully-crafted épée on a tasseled, purple cloth. "I want to hold it," he announced, slipping into the shop before Antonio could stop him. It was a near-empty shop, showcasing only the finest (and most expensive) pieces of the blacksmith's craft. Lovino strode to the counter, snapping his fingers at the owner's assistant. "I want to hold the épée in the window," he demanded.

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather have a new outfit, or jewels, or another accessory?" Antonio asked, eyeing the price as Lovino tested the épée's weight.

"I'm not a women attending a ball, Toni. I'm a swordsman, the only accessory I need is a blade. You said you would buy me whatever I wanted," he reminded the Spaniard. Then added: "Please—?"

Antonio sighed and paid the blacksmith's assistant. He took the épée from his hand and presented it like a knight to Lovino, who eagerly took it. He sheathed it and tucked it into his sash, feeling proud as they left the shop.

Antonio escorted Lovino through the throng, never dismissing his requests. He bought the boy spicy treats and let him indulge every street-performer who wanted to serenade him. He took him to a small restaurant for lunch, which overlooked a healthy rose-garden. Antonio let Lovino order whatever he wanted; he even plucked a blood-red rose and gave it to him. Then, when Lovino wanted to climb a watchtower to view the city, Antonio bribed the guards to let them pass (then carried Lovino after the boy got tired of climbing). It was, from Lovino's perspective, the perfect day. Not only because Lovino could do whatever he wanted, but because Antonio stayed beside him the whole day. He even asked Antonio to take him to the Turkish baths, not because he wanted to lounge in the steamy heat, but because he wanted to see if the Spaniard actually would, which he did. They only stayed for a short while though, because the patrons made Lovino feel uncomfortable, leering at his naked body. He stayed close to Antonio for protection, but got bored when Antonio failed to talk to him. He didn't look at the boy even once while in the bathhouse, keeping his gaze plastered to the wall. Finally, at sunset, Antonio took Lovino's arm like a gentleman in escort (Lovino complained, but didn't struggle) and led him outside the city-centre. He wouldn't tell Lovino where they were going, which annoyed the stubborn boy, but he promised that Lovino would enjoy it.

"How can you know that?" Lovino challenged, holding Antonio's arm.

Antonio sidestepped the playful bait and smiled. "Because I know you, Lovi. You'll just have to trust me."

* * *

 **CARRIEDO**

You'll just have to trust me," Antonio said, feigning confidence. In truth, he was anxious about Lovino's reaction. He had wanted to do something special for the boy, but Lovino had grown-up so much in the past two years that Antonio sometimes wondered how well he really did know him. _I've been so busy lately_ _that I've barely spent any time with him._ He felt guilty about that, even if it was unavoidable. He hoped that spoiling Lovino on his birthday would make up for it (Lovino loved to be spoiled), which is why he was determined to give the boy anything he wanted today, but this last stop was something that Antonio had planned without Lovino's knowledge. It had seemed like a good idea before, but now, as they climbed a steep rise, he felt nervous. _He's not the child I used to know_ , _he's nearly an adult. Next year he'll be sixteen_ , _a man._ Antonio had refused to take Lovino to a tavern, like he wanted (it was the only thing he refused to do). _But if that's really what he wants to do then maybe he'll think my surprise is boring_?

"Toni, what's wrong?" Lovino questioned.

Antonio blinked. He had stopped at the gates, staring absently in thought. Lovino cocked his head curiously. "Oh, nothing!" Antonio lied, plastering a smile to his face. He didn't want to worry Lovino, not today. "Come on, chiquito. Let's celebrate your fifteenth birthday."

Lovino's mouth fell open in awe as they stepped through the gates. An Italian-style ristorante sat nestled on the edge of a picturesque garden, overlooking the sparkling ocean. There were beautiful frescoes painted on the white-washed walls and a musician playing on the stoop. It was like stepping into another world, one bathed in yellow roses. At the doors, the hostess said: "Benvenuto, Capitano" and led them to a table on the patio, which had the best view. Everything inside was in Italian and the wine she poured was from Tuscany. It was delicious, the food was exquisite, and the setting was breathtaking, but none of it compared to Lovino's smile.

"Do you like it?" Antonio asked sheepishly.

Lovino didn't know where to look. "How do you know about this place?"

"I found it years ago, six months after I left Italy for the first time," Antonio explained. "It was my eighteenth birthday and I was feeling homesick." Lovino's hazel eyes landed on him, looking gold in the candlelight. He blinked expectantly and waited for Antonio to continue, captivated by the Spaniard's admission. "I know that Italy isn't really my home," he allowed, "but it _is_ where I spent my entire childhood. It's the setting of my fondest memories. I lived there for seventeen years, after all. It's where I met my family. Francis and I were inseparable as children, we had so much fun growing-up together. I wish you could've known him better, he was a good friend. Your grandfather spoiled us as if we were his own children; he took care of us and taught us everything we know. I fought him when he came for me back then, I was young and afraid, but, in retrospect, I was so lucky he found me. And when you and Feliciano were born it only got better." Lovino pursed his lips, biting back a smile. It made Antonio's heart feel full, but sad as well. "I had a really happy childhood in Italy, which is more than most people get. You shouldn't be so anxious to say goodbye to yours, chiquito. I know that you're having fun living a pirate's life, but I don't want you to ever forget what home feels like." He gestured to the ristorante, which was a little slice of Italy in a foreign land.

Lovino swallowed. He looked impossibly beautiful in the candlelight, a coveted treasure meant for a lord, or a king, or a god, but not for Antonio: the orphaned, self-made pirate. When the boy's full lips curled into an innocent smile, Antonio's heart skipped a beat.

"Grazi, Toni." His voice was soft in embarrassment. His cheeks blushed and he averted his gaze. "It's the best present anyone's ever given me. I love it," he said, barely audible.

Antonio smiled in relief. _I guess I do still know you a little bit_. "De nada, Lovino."

They spent an enjoyable evening together being waited on hand-and-foot by the ristorante's staff, ordering a sample of everything on the menu and making requests of the musician. If Antonio closed his eyes he could pretend that he was actually in Italy. It brought back a flood of happy memories and stories, several of which involved Francis, which he found himself telling Lovino. The more wine they drank the more saucy the stories became (okay, so maybe Antonio wasn't the best secret-keeper— _sorry_ , _Francis_ ) and the harder Lovino laughed. He wiped pearls of tears from his twinkling eyes. Antonio loved Lovino's chortling laugh, it was so honest; the boy snorted, blushed tomato-red, and then laughed harder. When the waitress offered them a third bottle of wine, Antonio declined, surprised that they had already gone through two. His head felt pleasantly fuzzy when he stood, taking Lovino's hand. The boy was flushed and starry-eyed, and he hugged Antonio's arm as the Spaniard led him into the garden.

"It's beautiful," Lovino said, plucking a yellow rose. He grinned mischievously, encouraged by the red wine to weave it into Antonio's thick hair. "Sei bello," he repeated, teasing the Spaniard.

"I guess that second bottle was a mistake," Antonio said. Lovino pouted, trying to look offended, but he burst out laughing. Then he tripped over his own booted feet and Antonio caught him around the belly. "Okay, come here," he said, lifting the languid boy like a newlywed bride. He took him to a stone bench on the edge of the garden and sat down. The sunset was brilliant: pink, purple, yellow, and orange rays hung low on the horizon, dying the water like an artist's canvas. It was a breathtaking sight, but Lovino fidgeted restlessly. Drunk, as when asleep, he was a physically affectionate boy and would not be separated from Antonio.

"Toni," he whined, hugging Antonio's neck when the Spaniard released him. Flopping onto the bench, he sat thigh-to-thigh beside Antonio, leaning against him. The boy's hazel-gold eyes were bright but unseeing. His voice was uncharacteristically soft: "I want to stay with you. Don't leave me behind, okay?"

Antonio couldn't help it, he smiled down at the intoxicated boy. "Okay, Lovi," he said.

Lovino leaned up insistently, holding Antonio's shoulder for support. Antonio could feel the boy's hot breath on his skin. "Do you promise?"

Antonio eyed the boy's full, velvety lips, which were slightly parted. He swallowed. His heart was pounding hard, feeling hot. He could feel his body responding to Lovino's proximity, egged on by his innocent, begging tone. _Oh no_ , Antonio tried to quell the feelings stirring within him, but couldn't. Lovino was practically in his lap, looking so good—so ready. _I want to taste him_ , he thought shamelessly. _Just a little taste_. He knew it was wrong, but he couldn't stop himself. Adrenaline fueled his blood, urging him to take. It was unlike the taking he felt in battle, where an inner-voice demanded blood; now the voice was demanding something else. It urged him to cup the back of Lovino's head, drawing him closer. _Stop_! shouted Logic, but his body ignored it. _Stop_ , _you're going to scare him_! _You're going to hurt him_! _This is wrong_! Antonio lifted Lovino's chin, their lips only inches apart.

"Toni—?" Lovino whispered.

"I'll never leave you, Lovino— I promise. _Te quiero_."

He closed the gap between them and kissed the fifteen-year-old. He kissed him too hard, too desperately, but he couldn't stop. It was too late. Antonio's hot lips harassed Lovino's, sucking his sweet, wine-laced lips: holding him trapped. It took Lovino a moment to recover, too shocked to gasp or fight. _Stop it_! Logic screamed. _Look what you're doing_! Briefly Antonio opened his eyes and the fog of desire momentarily subsided. That's when he realized that the boy's eyes were closed, his hands were fisted in Antonio's shirt-front, and Lovino was kissing him back. And instantly Antonio lost himself again in the touch and taste of the boy, who opened his mouth and let Antonio take control. In retaliation, Antonio let months of pent-up desire flood his veins like a drug; it was potent and dangerous. It was not sweet and tender, as a first kiss should have been. Instead, Antonio pulled Lovino closer while simultaneously leaning forward, pushing him back against the bench. Lovino's arms wrapped around Antonio's neck, shoulders arched as he held on tightly. When a soft, erotic whimper escaped the boy, it sent a shiver of arousal through Antonio's body—

—and he suddenly, quickly pulled back.

His breath came out fast and clumsy as he stared down at the harassed boy. He looked tousled, staring up at Antonio through clouded eyes. _Oh no_! _What am I doing_?! _What have I done_?! he panicked. His head spun, heavy with wine's influence.

"Toni," Lovino murmured quietly. His eyelids fluttered, then closed.

Antonio gently tapped his cheek, but Lovino was out-cold. "Gracias a Dios," he whispered. Clumsily he stood and collected the unconscious boy and slowly left the garden. He descended the hill and walked back through the city, which was busy despite the late-hour. He reached the wharf and retreated up _El Escape_ 's gangplank, holding Lovino, all the while trying to convince himself that the boy was nothing more than the child he had always been. _I'm a dirty_ , _horrible person_ , he thought in self-loathing. He parried the crew's jokes and questions and headed to the captain's cabin, where he locked the door and tucked Lovino into bed. He removed the boy's boots but left the rest of his clothes on, then covered him with a blanket. He brushed back the boy's chocolate-brown hair, letting his fingers linger on Lovino's warm skin. His index-finger ghosted over the boy's lips, which stirred something primal and desperate in him; absently he licked his lips. Then, in realization, he pulled away. He stepped back several feet and stumbled into the tabletop, holding the edge. "Oh Dios!" he gasped, heart pounding. "What have I done?"

 _I'm a horrible_ , _despicable human-being. I've taken advantage of my fifteen-year-old foster-brother while drunk_! _Oh Dios_ , _I'm going to hell for sure_!

Antonio clutched his cross tightly, hoping that the damage was not irreversible. He prayed for the absolution of his countless sins, feeling like a disappointment and a failure. _Roma trusted me to take care of Lovino._ _I was supposed to protect him_ _and I failed._ _I slipped. I let myself_ — He bit his lip. _I can't control myself_! It was his greatest fear. _I'm going to hurt Lovino. I can't control what I do_.That constant, carnal, bloodthirsty voice in his head controlled him. _Just like eight years ago_ , _after Francis left and I—_

Shaking, Antonio fell to his knees and pressed the cross to his lips, squished between his folded hands. He closed his eyes and he prayed: _Please_ , _please_ , _please don't let Lovino remember what I did to him tonight. Make him forget it. Bury that memory deep_ , _keep him safe from it._

 _Keep him safe from me._


	4. Chapter Three

**DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers** – **Hidekaz Himaruya**

 **SPANISH GOLD**

* * *

 **THREE**

 **VARGAS**

 **BARCELONA, SPAIN**

 **18 MARCH 1738**

Lovino awoke feeling sick. He had barely lifted his head from the pillow before a needle of pain pierced his foggy brain and he squeezed his eyes shut, deploring the bright sunlight that shone happily into the cabin. Seagulls cried outside, dueling for fish-heads, as the Italian fought the urge to discharge the contents of his stomach in a most ungentlemanly fashion. A gust of wind blew the fishy scent of Barcelona's wharf into the cabin and Lovino lost the battle for control. He stumbled urgently to the window and, clutching the sill, vomited over the ship's side. Then he watched the seagulls dive hungrily to eat the chunky contents floating in the water, and he vomited again. Nature, it seemed, was unsympathetic to his sensitivities. He buried his head in his arms and sat slumped against the window-ledge like the weeping victim of a villain's plot. Half-asleep, too lethargic and afraid of the gastric repercussions to risk moving, Lovino stayed there until the cabin's door opened.

He barely registered the touch of Antonio's hand. "Lovi—?" he inquired.

Lovino uttered a weak moan, afraid to open his eyes. Uninvited, Antonio lifted Lovino off the window-ledge. He tried to protest, embarrassed by the mere thought of vomiting on Antonio, but the Spaniard's warm body had the opposite effect. Lovino rested his head on Antonio's chest and clutched a fistful of his shirt-sleeve, feeling comforted. The scent of Antonio's skin—like roasted-coffee, sweat, and sea-salt—was soothing. "I want to die," he murmured as Antonio returned him to bed.

"I would be muy sad if you did," Antonio admitted. He left then, but returned shortly with a glass of the most foul-smelling concoction Lovino had ever had the displeasure of smelling. He wondered if Antonio was intentionally trying to make him sick, especially when the Spaniard's chipper voice said: "Drink it."

"Fuck yourself," Lovino retaliated grumpily. "N-nooo—!"

Antonio pulled Lovino's forearms until he was sitting, and then pushed the offensive drink toward him. "It'll make you feel better."

"Sí, no doubt. Because if I drink it I'll die."

"Stop fussing, just trust me. Lovi"—Antonio pinched Lovino's nose—"don't make me feed you like a bebé."

Lovino swatted at Antonio, who only relented when he had taken the glass in defeat. "I hate you," he said, eyeing the thick grog, which looked like a witch's brew. _With luck it'll send me into an enchanted sleep until the hang-over passes_ , he thought. The instant it touched his lips, however, his gag-reflex abolished the idea. He leaned forward, but Antonio lifted his chin, forcing him to swallow. Too late, Lovino pinched his nose. The taste on his tongue was horrid, but he managed to choke the rest down. "I—" _cough cough_ "— _hate_ you, Toni!"

As Lovino rolled onto his side, Antonio said: "I shouldn't have let you drink so much last night." He looked sheepish.

Lovino's hazel eyes narrowed, partially at Antonio and partially at the abrasive sunlight. "You drank as much as I did. Why aren't you sick?"

"Because," Antonio said, affecting a teasing manner; he cocked his index-finger, "I already drank my potion."

"Fuck you," Lovino returned. And he went back to sleep.

It was late-afternoon when next he awoke, feeling drowsy. His head felt heavy, as if drugged, but at least it no longer hurt. He peeled his eyes open and gazed out beneath his long, black lashes. Antonio was sitting at a desk in the corner, head bowed as he wrote. Lovino could hear the faint, constant scrape of a quill-pen on parchment, which sang the boy back to sleep.

Lovino dreamt of old fish-scaled witches and magick brews that smelled like something only a Scandinavian would voluntarily eat. He dreamt of being locked in a cage beneath the ocean's surface; he could feel the cage moving as the waves rocked it. He tugged at the bars, made of bone, and screamed for help. He screamed for Antonio, whose silhouette he could see above the surface: dashing, like a swashbuckling hero. The Spaniard's strong hands reached down and pulled the cage apart: the bones broke (Lovino heard the crunch of every one). Then, as the cage emerged, Antonio grabbed Lovino and pulled him to safety. Lovino felt relief. Gazing into Antonio's emerald-green eyes, he felt affection. Then Antonio kissed him, not on the forehead or cheek, but on the lips like lovers. And Lovino reciprocated as if it was the most natural thing in the world. It felt right. Antonio had rescued him so many times and—oh! Lovino had longed to repay him with a kiss. He felt the touch of Antonio's supple lips; he tasted Antonio's slick, wine-laced tongue. And the Spaniard's strong hands, which coiled around the column of Lovino's slender neck. Lovino stiffed, his ministrations ceased. Forcefully Antonio's hands constricted around his neck, crushing his windpipe. Lovino couldn't breathe. He tried to call-out, but he couldn't make a sound. He tasted brine as Antonio pushed him back beneath the ocean's surface. There were tears in his green eyes, which had clouded-over like a stormy sky. His lips spoke words of regret, but Lovino couldn't hear them. Antonio squeezed his neck until the bones broke. Just like the cage.

Lovino bolted upright, gasping. He felt—scared.

 _No_ , _Toni wouldn't do that. He's good_ , _he's kind._ He clutched his heart, which was beating hard. _Toni's soft_ , _he's not a killer. He's a pirate_ , _but he's not bad. Everyone loves him. He wouldn't hurt anyone. He wouldn't hurt me_.

"Lovi—? Are you okay, chiquito?"

Lovino turned and faced Antonio, who was sitting at his desk. The sunset was murderous, bathing the pirate captain in blood-red. He stared at the Italian boy with a curious, cryptic look on his face. It reminded Lovino of the Antonio in his dream, who had rescued him only to crush his bones. An involuntary whine escaped him.

"Lovi, what's wrong?" Antonio crossed the room in three long-legged strides and knelt by Lovino's bedside. When he reached for him, Lovino flinched. "Hey there, chiquito," he smoothed Lovino's hair, "tell me what's wrong."

"N-nothing, just a— dream," he said.

Antonio's face had softened. He knelt on the floor, staring eye-to-eye with Lovino. In the shadows, out of the blinding red sunlight, he looked like himself again. He looked like the handsome green-eyed man who had kissed the boy in the garden the night before.

 _Toni kissed me_ , Lovino thought, feeling happy. _That wasn't a dream_ , _it really happened._

Lovino had been taken off-guard by Antonio's sudden advance, but it hadn't shocked him. It hadn't scared him. On the contrary, it had confirmed a suspicion that he had been feeling for years: something that had grown from an innocent, childhood crush into— _love_? _Is this what love feels like_? Lovino had never been in love before and didn't know what it was supposed to feel like. _But this_ —staring into Antonio's handsome, familiar face— _doesn't feel so bad._ _I wanted him to kiss me_ , he realized. _I've wanted it for a long time_. _Do you feel the same way_ , _Toni_? _Do you love me_?

He stared expectantly at Antonio, waiting for him to speak; waiting for him to confirm the change that had occurred between them; waiting for him to acknowledge his feelings; waiting to be confessed to; waiting to be kissed— waiting. But as the seconds ticked by, Antonio remained silent. _Don't you love me_? Lovino wondered, feeling nervous. _Now is the time to tell me_ , _Toni. I'm here_ , _I'm listening. I want to know why you kissed me._ But the silence stretched and the Spaniard lingered, and Lovino's nerves slowly deflated into hopelessness. _Are we not going to talk about it at all_? _Are we going to pretend it never happened_?

Finally, as if waking from a daydream, Antonio leaned forward—

—and pecked Lovino's forehead. "Just rest, chiquito. You'll feel better tomorrow."

* * *

Days passed with barely a word exchanged between the Spaniard and Italian that wasn't of inconsequence. The polite conversation might have been suitable of a gentleman and a courtier, but it was unlike the way they usually spoke to one other, especially on Lovino's part. Afraid this new-found feeling of—love? would vanish if he didn't cradle it, the boy tried his hardest to avoid upsetting Antonio by complaining or losing his temper—harbouring hope that Antonio would confess to him, or at least acknowledge the kiss—and, as a result, he spent much time out of Antonio's presence altogether. Antonio, however, seemed not to notice. Blaming a busy schedule, he submerged himself in work and the boy saw him even less than before. And when he did, Antonio was distracted. He spent hours at his desk, scribbling what Lovino thought were letters—to whom, the Italian didn't know. Once, when curiosity overwhelmed propriety, he rifled through the contents of Antonio's desk, which the Spaniard had started keeping uncharacteristically tidy, but he didn't find anything of interest. The bottom drawer, which doubtlessly contained the letters, was locked.

Lovino lasted a week before his temper finally ate his patience.

"Supper is ready," he said to Antonio, inching toward him. "You haven't eaten anything today, Toni. And the cook made paella for supper, one of your favourites. It'd be rude not to eat it. Toni—?"

Antonio was sitting hunched over his desk, absorbed in his writing. It looked like a letter, but as Lovino drew closer, hoping to catch a glimpse of it, Antonio flinched and flipped it over in reflex, overturning a pot of pounce in the process. "What's wrong, Lovi?" he asked, ignoring the mess.

Lovino eyed him skeptically, distrusting Antonio's feigned nonchalance. "I said, supper's ready," he repeated in annoyance.

"Oh." Antonio relaxed. "No, you go ahead and eat without me, Lovi. I'm not hungry for empanadas."

"Paella," Lovino corrected, temper flaring. He disliked being ignored.

"Sí, paella— that's what I meant."

In a bout of compressed rage, Lovino reached over Antonio's shoulder, grabbed his ink-well, and threw it at the opposite wall. It shattered, leaving an inky stain on the wood as it fell to the floor. In shock, Antonio protested, but Lovino was already gone. He left the cabin and climbed to the top-most deck, where he had not practised swordplay in weeks. He clutched the guardrail tightly, letting the breeze cool his temper.

 _Why did I do that_? he wondered, feeling unstable; feeling hot like fire. As his fingers closed around the ink-well, his only thought had been: _Pay attention to me_ , _Toni_! _Please_ — _just look at me_! Then, irrationally, he had let the ink-well fly in frustration, too late to curb his temper. He regretted it now, of course. It had both startled and confused Antonio, but Lovino felt better for having done it. _I've never been able to control my temper_ , he disregarded, _I don't know why I even bothered trying_. _But it's not my fault_. _It's because Toni is infuriating_! _He makes me so angry_!

 _It's became I care_ , he privately admitted. _If I didn't care for him_ , _I wouldn't feel so strongly. It wouldn't hurt this much._

Kisses were supposed to be given in love and affection, not fear. They were supposed to make you feel happy, not sad. Not forgotten. And Antonio—

 _He won't even look at me_ , Lovino thought sadly. _Does he regret kissing me_? _Does he really want to forget it so badly_? _Fine_ , he accepted defeat. The kiss had been exhilarating, addictive even. It had been everything that Lovino was unwittingly waiting for, everything he wanted. But it wasn't worth losing what he and Antonio already had. _If you want to pretend it didn't happen_ _then so will I_.

"Because"—Lovino whispered to the wind—"ti amo." _I love you_.

* * *

 **CARRIEDO**

 **MARSEILLE, FRANCE**

 **ONE MONTH LATER**

Antonio folded the letter twice and tucked it into his coat pocket. He had left the ship early, seeking a messenger from Rome. The port of Marseille was quiet compared to busy Barcelona, but amply supplied to quench any seaman's thirst for wine or women. He had met the messenger in a wine-house and received a single letter: a reply to the one he had sent over a month ago. It was written in Roma's artistic scroll, though his words were not quite as artful. It was a short letter compared to the multi-paged composition that Antonio had written him, but just as well. It wasn't meant to be a correspondence between friends, but a plea for help. One to which his former foster-father had replied:

 _April_ , _1738_

 _Rome_

 _My dearest Antonio_ ,

 _It sorrows me to know of your hardships_ , _child. Your soul is tormented_ , _cleaved in two. Ever has it grieved me_ , _but I am afraid it has always been so with you. Passion_ ( _I shan't call it otherwise_ ) _is in your blood and is yours to command_ ; _in this_ , _fear is your enemy. I regret my absence. I would counsel you better if I could_ , _but in matters of the heart I do not believe I can (nor should). I cannot ease your heartache_ , _dear child. Yours is not my decision to make. But I trust you_ , _Antonio. I always have._

 _If you so desire_ , _thinking it in the best interest of my grandson_ , _send Lovino home with haste._

 _Yours lovingly_ ,

 _Roma_

It wasn't, Antonio thought, the most straightforward answer. He sighed as he climbed the gangplank, returning to _El Escape_ , thinking on the decision he alone had to make and wishing that Roma had been less abstract in his reply. Unintentionally, he found himself yearning for the days of his childhood when the Italian had commanded, not obliged his foster-sons. If he had ordered Francis and Antonio to do something, they had (usually) done it without question, trusting Roma's judgement. They had never had to make decisions for themselves, and—oh! how much simpler that was then governing oneself! _I wrote you for guidance_ , Antonio thought grimly, _and all you've written back is_ : _decide for yourself_. _That's what I get for leaving home_ , _for pretending that my life is my own. I thought I was escaping the shackles of Italy_. _I thought that taking control of my own life meant the freedom to do whatever I want_. He laughed mirthlessly. _But I was wrong_ : _the opposite is true. I have more responsibility now_ , _more cares and worries than I ever did in Italy_.

As if on-cue, Lovino's voice interrupted his thoughts:

"Come on, Miguel, please?" he whined. "Jorge?"

Lovino was bouncing eagerly on his toes, engaged in a one-sided debate with the first-mate and boson, who both looked skeptically at the boy. It wasn't an unusual sight: Lovino often pestered the sailors, especially Miguel, who either regarded him with indifference or affectionate tolerance depending on the boy's energy level. Today it was high. Lovino was bright-eyed and determined. It was a refreshing sight. Antonio had been cautious of Lovino since the boy's birthday and, though he tried to be subtle about it, he was sure that Lovino had noticed—if his change in attitude was any indication. Of course, that was _before_ he had smashed an ink-well against the wall. It was good to see the Italian acting like himself again, despite his temper. It made Antonio less afraid of what he had done. _If Lovino remembered me kissing him he would have said something by now_ , _long before now_ , he convinced himself. _He doesn't remember_ , _I'm certain of it._

Lovino said: "Puh-lease—?"

Miguel exchanged an exasperated glance with Jorge before answering the boy. "No," he said sternly. "None of us are taking you ashore, Lovino. The capitán would skewer us if we did."

Lovino exhaled dramatically. "Toni? No he wouldn't, he's too soft. He probably won't even notice I'm gone." Antonio felt a pinch of guilt but, like the loneliness slowly creeping back, he steeled himself against it. He was about to interject, but Lovino continued. To Miguel and Jorge, he said: "Come on, I thought we were friends."

Jorge folded his big, dark-skinned arms. "Yesterday you called me a slimy, spineless jellyfish."

"Only in jest, obviously—"

"No, Lovino. The answer is no," Miguel silenced him. "I won't deliberately disobey Capitán Carriedo's orders. I like my organs were they are, gracias."

Lovino scoffed at their retreat. "Toni? You're afraid of _Toni_ —? _Pah_! Well, fine then! I don't need you, I'll do what I want!" he retorted arrogantly.

Antonio noted the way Lovino's hip cocked, achieving a devil-may-care posture despite his flushed skin. _Oh Dios_ , _he's so beautiful_ , he thought, spying on the impassioned boy. The sunlight was bright, making Lovino's skin look like delicious dark-caramel. The sea's climate and wild temperament agreed with the fiery fifteen-year-old. Antonio wanted so badly to reach out and touch him, but he was afraid of what the physical contact would do to him. It wasn't as if Lovino was consciously trying to entice Antonio, after all. He was just an incredibly vain boy who liked the way he looked in form-fitting clothes; he liked his hair to be perfectly styled; he knew just how attractive he was and liked looking his best. It wasn't as if he was hoping to catch Antonio's eye—right?

"Fucking Toni," Lovino grumbled to himself. He kicked a wooden bucket, making a racket. "Doesn't he know who I am? I'm Lovino fucking Vargas, you bastardos! I'm a lord! He can't just keep me locked-up in here. I should be free to go wherever the fuck I want. And I will. I don't care about Toni's rules. I'm not afraid." He gestured rudely in Miguel's direction. "I'm not going to let those self-serving nobodies order me around like a—"

"Lovino?" Antonio interrupted.

Lovino spun on his heel in surprise. "Oh, Toni," he said sheepishly, wondering if Antonio had heard his rant. When Antonio failed to speak, however, he regained his confidence. "What do you want?"

"Please stop pestering the crew, they have work to do. Nobody is going to take you ashore, chiquito," Antonio said as mildly as possible. He didn't have the energy, nor will, to argue with Lovino just then.

"Then I guess you'll just have to take me," Lovino replied cockily. "I've never been to Marseille, please Toni? Or I'll go by myself," he threatened, knowing that Antonio would follow if he tried.

"No, not tonight. I haven't got the time and you can't go alone."

Lovino exhaled. "When are you going to stop treating me like a child? I've been a pirate—"

"A cabin-boy."

"—for three years! I've learned sailing and swordsmanship, I've even fired a pistol!"

"Once. And you sprained your wrist because of the kick-back," Antonio reminded him. "I'm sorry, Lovi, but it's too dangerous right now. I've just been ashore and it's crawling with sailors on-leave, it's rowdy. The shopkeepers are having enough trouble trying to placate them. Nobody would blink at your getting hurt. Besides that, I found my picture posted to a garden-wall: a wanted-poster. If someone recognized me—or worse, _you_ —what would happen?"

"I can protect myself," Lovino proclaimed, patting the épée on his hip. "I'm a capable swordsman, I can take on anyone who dares to challenge me. You don't believe me?" he noted Antonio's pitying expression. It aggravated his temper, which made his cheeks flush redder. "I'm not a baby, Toni. I'm fifteen. You don't have to protect me, you're not even my real brother. I'm not your responsibility. I can fight my own battles, I— I don't need you anymore!"

Antonio swallowed the verbal blow, which felt more like slap in the face. Lovino's hazel eyes grew wide for a moment and he opened his mouth to speak, perhaps apologize, but his pride would not allow it. Instead he held the Spaniard's gaze, determined to win the argument at all costs. A retort formed in Antonio's mind, but he bit his tongue. _I don't want to fight with you_ , _Lovino. Especially not when you're right_.

Slowly, Antonio nodded his head. "I know," he said. And walked away.

* * *

 **VARGAS**

Lovino eyed his reflection in the wall-mirror, trying to decide if he looked older and more mature than he had a year ago. He was taller, if not broader. Despite two-and-a-half years of fencing lessons, he was physically no stronger now than he had been before, still slender-figured and modelesque. Admittedly, the only thing about him that had grown was his ego—and vanity. _I look good_ , he thought immodestly, trying to smooth down an errant curl. _I look like a born-and-bred noble_. Satisfied, he slipped his épée into his sash and grabbed for Antonio's coat. The breeze had cooled as the sun set and he wanted something to protect himself from the cold as well as unwanted eyes.

Since he had argued with Antonio that afternoon: since he had seen the heartbreak in Antonio's emerald-green eyes and, because of it, decided that he had won the disagreement, Lovino had felt the need to prove his ability. Antonio would never trust him if Lovino's skills remained untested. _I won't go far into the city_ , he decided, slipping into the coat. _I'll just stay long enough to prove that I'm not afraid of being alone_ , _just long enough to prove that I can take care of myself._ He knew Antonio would lecture him afterward, but he was prepared for the consequences. _I won't let Toni coddle me anymore_. _I'm not his baby-brother_ , _I never was._ _And maybe—_ just maybe _—if I can prove to him that I'm not a child_ , _Toni might reconsider his feelings for me._ The thought alone made his heart leap hopefully.

Lovino reached for the door, but it swung open before he touched it.

* * *

 **CARRIEDO**

Antonio nearly hit Lovino with the door as it swung inward. The first thing he noted was the boy's attire: calve-high boots laced over tight black trousers, a crimson-red sash tied at his slender waist, adorned with his épée, and a long-sleeved white shirt tucked neatly in. He carried himself with all of the confidence of a peacock flaunting its plumage. And he looked good— _really_ good. The second thing Antonio noticed was Lovino's expression: cocky and self-assured, but tense, ready for a fight. "I'm going ashore," he said, sounding less like the wolf-pup he had been and more like a fully-grown wolf. In a show of defiance, he flipped the collar of Antonio's coat up. The coat was too big for him, especially in the shoulders, but it somehow only added to his saucy charm. His beautiful, youthful face was set in an uncompromising scowl not unlike the pout he used to wear as a child. Only now his velvety lips were fuller, his cheekbones were higher, and his hazel eyes burned with a more heated fire. It was an uncomfortable feeling, Antonio thought as he stared at Lovino, to be annoyed and aroused at the same time.

 _Everything about you has grown-up except for your attitude_ , _Lovino. You're still a brat. Only_ _now you're a brat I want to fuck_.

He hated himself for it, but could finally admit (privately, and hating himself) that he was sexually attracted to the fifteen-year-old boy. Which was exactly why Lovino had to return to Italy as soon as possible.

Antonio stepped stiffly into the cabin. "You're not going anywhere," he said, trying to ignore the ache in his— _ahem_ —heart. His blood felt hot; he could hear it pounding in his ears. The growling voice in his head whispered carnal lust, urging him to take: to possess. To conquer. He fought the desire, but felt his self-restraint weaken every time he looked at Lovino. "You won't go by yourself," he said, without making eye-contact, "you hate being alone."

"Maybe I do, but I'm not afraid," Lovino replied.

"Sí, I know. That's what concerns me." Antonio sighed. "Lovi, there's something we need to discuss."

Lovino rubbed a smudge of sea-salt off Antonio's coat and absently fingered the hilt of his sword. "Not now, I'm leaving to go ashore," he said, making to walk by Antonio.

Antonio grabbed the boy's shoulder, applying the gentlest pressure to stop him. But even that sent a shiver of anticipation up his spine. "It's important."

"I don't care. If it's so important then come with me."

"Lovino, please—"

"No!" Lovino snapped. He slapped Antonio's hand away, temper flaring. "You can't just order me around like I'm one of your replaceable crewmembers, you know. I might be your cabin-boy, but I'm also Lovino Vargas, and I'm done taking orders from you."

"When have you _ever_?" Antonio returned. "It's been three years and you still refuse to play by my rules." He indicated Lovino's attire; his desire to leave. "This is _my_ ship. I'm the capitán and you're the cabin-boy. Do I have to draw you a fucking diagram, Lovino? I'm the top, you're the bottom."

Lovino's cheeks blushed, but he snapped: "I-I am nobility! I am a lord! You're just an orphan who nobody wanted! Your own mother didn't even want you, that's why she abandoned you! If my Nonno hadn't found you, you'd be absolutely nothing! So don't you fucking tell me what to do—"

CRACK.

Antonio had never struck Lovino before, but his hand now tingled from the contact. His sudden, uncontrolled fury ceded quickly into fear as he looked from his raised hand to the Italian boy in stupefied horror. Lovino's eyes revealed disbelief, hurt, and anger as he reached up and cupped his reddening cheek. Antonio's hand trembled as he lowered it. _No— no_ , _no_ , _no_! Quickly he strode past Lovino into the cabin, facing the window. And he held his breath. _No_ , _please not now_! _Not him_!Lovino had never witnessed Antonio lose control before and the Spaniard fought hard now to keep it that way. But when Lovino, recovered from the unexpected blow, retaliated with a furious verbal attack, Antonio spun around and grabbed the boy's biceps.

"And what are _you_?" he challenged, resisting the urge to squeeze the frightened boy. "Who is Lovino Vargas except for a spoiled lordling brat who hides behind his _Nonno_ 's name? You've never earned a thing in your life!" He shook the boy. "You don't know what blood and sweat and tears really are, Lovino, or what it truly means to survive!"

"I-I've earned plenty!" Lovino defended. "I earned my sword—"

"No, _I_ bought it for you."

"I earned it by disarming you! I defeated you in combat!"

"No," Antonio denied. " _I_ let you win."

Antonio's confession took Lovino off-guard. He stared in open-mouthed disbelief, then shook his head. "No, I beat you. It was a one-on-one duel and I beat you. I practised for two years and I finally disarmed you—"

"Do you really think your épée could disarm my cutlass? Do you really think a skinny little boy could defeat me?" Antonio spat pitilessly.

 _No_ , _stop it_! _Stop taunting him_! said his Conscience. _You're scaring him_! _Calm down or you'll hurt him_!

But Antonio ignored it. "I let you win," he growled, teeth clenched. "I let you think you had beaten me so you would stop asking to fight. I was _never_ going to let you fight real battles, Lovino, and the sooner you lost interest in sword-fighting the better. It took me a while to realize it, but you're a quitter. As soon as you've proved your point you quit everything you try. I knew that if I let you win, it would give you that sense of victory you seem to crave, then hopefully you would cast sword-fighting aside like everything else." Lovino's hazel eyes filled with tears of betrayal, which he tried to blink away, but Antonio saw them. He felt his fury ebbing rapidly into guilt as he beheld the young boy, wanting to console him, but he didn't. Instead he released Lovino and took a step back. "I'm sorry," he said stiffly. "I never meant to tell you that, but it's the truth."

"So, what then?" Lovino feigned indifference, though his voice was choked; eyes tear-filled. "You lied to me?"

"I did it to keep you safe."

"By lying to me? By striking me?!" he yelled. The tears fell. "What else have you lied about? What do you—" Lovino stuck his hands into Antonio's coat pockets in search of a handkerchief, but stopped suddenly. He drew out the letter from Rome and unfolded it. His eyes grew wide when he recognized his grandfather's handwriting. "Toni," he said quietly, reading it. "What is this?"

Antonio gasped. "Lovino, don't! That's not for you, it's—"

"From Nonno Roma. What is this?!" he demanded, dodging Antonio's reach. "Are you... sending me away? Do you not want me anymore?"

"No! I mean, sí! I do want you— here," he added, suddenly tongue-tied. Fury became guilt became panic in his brain. He didn't know what to feel. He spoke without thinking: "I love having you here with me, Lovi. I really do. But we both knew you had to go back eventually. You have to go home."

"No, please no! I don't want to go back! I want to stay here with you! _Ah—_! No! Toni, let go of me!"

Lovino thrashed wildly, but he couldn't free himself from Antonio's grasp. He held the boy tightly, trying to simultaneously soothe and restrain him, but Lovino didn't want to be soothed or restrained; he wanted to fight. He wanted to run. Antonio could see despotism in his teary, hazel eyes. _I never wanted to make him cry_ , he thought, feeling the bite of failure. _Not like this._ Lovino's pleading voice hurt Antonio, who was so accustomed to giving the lordling whatever he wanted. _Not this time. This time it's for your own good_ , _Lovino. You're in danger here_ ; _you've always been in danger with me. You have to go back_ , _otherwise I'm afraid I'll—_ He swallowed. _I won't be able to control myself._ _You'll be safe in Italy_ , _safe from me_.

Finally, Lovino stopped fighting and hung his silky head. "Do you hate me, Toni? Is that why you want me to leave?" His voice betrayed fear. He hesitated. "Is it... because you kissed me?"

Antonio was so shocked by Lovino's words that he dropped the boy and stepped back, breaking contact.

"You told me you loved me," Lovino said, clenching the letter in his fist. "Was that a lie too?"

When Antonio failed to speak, Lovino took his silence as truth and left. He let the cabin's door slam behind him, boots dashing across the deck, but Antonio didn't move. He couldn't. He watched in self-loathing as the object of his affection literally ran away from him in fear. His heart pounded; his throat felt dry. But by the time he unclenched his jaw and found his voice it was too late. "No, it wasn't a lie," he said.

But Lovino was already gone.

* * *

 **VARGAS**

Lovino ran. He burst from the cabin and raced across _El Escape_ 's deck, dodging sailors, who, desensitized to the boy's tantrums, stepped quickly aside. He heard Jorge's deep voice yell at him to be careful, assuming that he was headed to the galley to sulk, but the man's tone changed when Lovino ran past the stairs. Slipping past the surprised guards, he ran down the gangplank onto the wharf. The port was busy, crowded with sailors on-leave and merchants selling their overpriced wares. Lovino heard Miguel's voice yell angrily, frantically, at him to return to the ship, ordering several crewmembers to retrieve him. He heard their loud footsteps bang against the gangplank as they chased after him, but Lovino lost them easily in the throng. His slight dancer's body weaved between bigger, meaner men and soon he had lost himself in a labyrinth of buildings: shops, wine-houses, brothels, and hotels.

He ran, his heart pounding. Tears filled his eyes; his cheek stung. His boots slipped on uneven ground and the big, heavy coat flew out behind him like a cape. His sheathed épée bounced on his hip. His fingers tingled as he clenched his hands, fighting helplessness. Feeling lost. He ran and didn't stop.

The tavern he chose was a small, swarthy place filled with scents that harassed his nose. It was the last place likely to attract a high-born lordling who valued cleanliness, which is precisely why he ducked inside. It was dark and the structure's facade was peeling, falling into disrepair; the inside was little better. Sitting between a pawn-shop and a seedy brothel, the tavern did not draw attention to itself. Lovino almost retreated when he spotted the few patrons inside (who leered at him as he entered), but malice silenced his better judgement. _Miguel will never find me in here_ , he thought spitefully as he wiped his eyes. Feigning confidence—collecting his broken pride; ignoring the attention he drew—he strode to the back and slid onto a barstool.

"Barkeep!" he ordered, drawing the owner's attention. Lovino hesitated (afraid of the man's villainous looks), but he was determined not to be intimidated by appearance or discourtesy. Puffing-up his chest, he hammered his fist on the counter, and said: "Give me your finest wine." The owner stared at him, unimpressed, but his greying eyebrows shot up in surprise when Lovino tossed him a Spanish coin. "Surely such fine gold can buy a man a drink or two—?"

It did better than that. It bought Lovino five drinks before the owner demanded another. Lovino eyed him quizzically, sure that a gold coin was worth more than five vinegar-tasting glasses of wine; sure that the owner was taking advantage of his ignorance. But his head felt heavy and he didn't want to calculate the value and Antonio's coat pockets were full of coins to spend, so he simply slid another across the counter in exchange for a refill.

 _Toni_ , _you fucking bastardo_ , he thought, laying his head down on folded arms. Antonio's big coat smelled like brine and tobacco and Lovino buried his nose in it, feeling increasingly weak. He sniffed, determined not to cry, but every sip of wine brought him closer to breaking-down. He ignored the people milling about, focused on the watered-down wine. For the first time in his life, Lovino Vargas just wanted to be alone.

 _Is that really what you want_? asked a small, pitying voice. _To be all alone_?

Lovino's bottom lip trembled. _Do I have a choice_? _If I go back_ , _Toni will send me away. He doesn't want me anymore_ : _maybe he never did._

 _You know that's a lie. He loves you—_

Lovino grabbed the wine-glass and chugged what was left. It tasted bitter on his tongue. He squeezed his weary eyes shut as he drank, swallowing a concoction that was one-part cheap wine and two-parts water and vinegar. But it served its purpose: It silenced hope.

He snapped his fingers and ordered another.

* * *

 **CARRIEDO**

 **TWO HOURS LATER**

KNOCK. KNOCK. "Capitán—?"

Antonio set aside the sherry he had been drinking straight from the bottle and wiped his mouth with a white sleeve. It left a stain. "What?" he called unhappily. The sight of Miguel's repentant face was not reassuring. It struck a nerve with the pirate captain, who was feeling short-tempered in grief and guilt. He stared at the first-mate, who was fidgeting anxiously, having sensed Antonio's dangerous tone.

"Err... Capitán, there's a bit of a problem. It's about Lovino. He, uh... Well, you know what an unruly boy he can be. Uh... that is, he's quite strong-willed, sí?" Miguel offered a nervous half-smile that Antonio did not return. He stared stonily at the first-mate, ordering him to continue. Miguel swallowed. "Lovino is... well, he was quite upset. I sent half the crew out after him, searching for him, but... I hope you'll understand, Capitán, that we tried our best to catch him, but—"

"Where," Antonio interrupted in a low, daunting voice, "is he?"

"Gone, Capitán. Lovino is gone."

The sherry bottle hit the wall and shattered, spilling the contents. Miguel flinched. "Get out," said the green-eyed captain, struggling to keep calm. The first-mate retreated quickly, closing the door behind him. Antonio stared angrily at the floor. He clenched his white-knuckled fists, and he clenched his jaw until it ached. The corner of his lip twitched as he fought to maintain his self-control, biting down a wave of anger-mixed-worry as it bubbled-up like vomit. He breathed through his nose, focusing on each deep intake of breath, listening to it like a bull about to charge. Finally, after several minutes, he managed to swallow his emotions. He grabbed his cutlass and re-loaded his pistols. On-deck, all work had ceased. The crew shied away from Antonio's dangerous gait as he stormed wordlessly down the gangplank, each secretly thanking God that he was not a certain spoiled Italian boy.

 _Damn you_ , _Lovino_! Antonio's green eyes glinted like unquenchable Greek-fire. _When I get my hands on you_ , _I'm going to_ —

He stopped, shook his head, and pushed into the crowd.

* * *

 **VARGAS**

Lovino was dozing, but flinched when he felt a hand slip into Antonio's coat pocket. "Hey!" he snapped, slapping the would-be thief. The barstool wobbled; he clutched the counter to keep his balance. "What the fuck are you doing?!"

"Okay, no offense," the man chuckled. He was average-height but thick-muscled, with greasy hair and pale, rheumy eyes. He glanced at a table behind him where several others, presumably his shipmates, grinned and raised a mug in encouragement. He said: "I didn't mean to scare you, boy," though his leer suggested otherwise. "You're not a gutter-rat, are you? Non. You're way too clean." Spontaneously, he leaned down and pressed his nose to Lovino's silky crown. The boy jumped back in surprise, hitting the bar-counter, and fell off the stool. The French sailors laughed at his indignant shout: "Don't touch me, you bastardo!" The greasy Frenchman cocked his head. "Awe, petit seigneur," he cooed teasingly. "Mes amis et myself only wanted to thank you for your generosity." He opened his fist, revealing a handful a gold coins.

Lovino crawled to his feet, swaying. He felt dizzy. "Give those back," he ordered.

The Frenchman flipped a coin up and then caught it again. "What's un petit seigneur like yourself doing here anyhow? Didn't your wet-nurse ever warn you not to talk to strangers, cher? A pretty little thing like you"—he reached toward Lovino—"why, you'd get gobbled up in a heartbeat."

"Don't touch me!" In defense, Lovino drew his épée.

A chorus of mock-appreciation erupted from the table and a few men lifted their mugs to toast the boy's nerve. One said: "Go on, Charles. Un petit seigneur wants to duel."

"Oui, teach him a lesson he won't soon forget," said another, licking his lips.

Charles unsheathed a cutlass in consent. "That's a fine toothpick you've got," he indicated Lovino's épée. "I'd like to have it along with whatever else you've got in your pockets."

"I'm rather more interested in what's in his trousers," said a low, syrupy voice.

Lovino whipped around. A tall, black-eyed sailor was standing quietly behind him. "F-fuck off!" he shouted. "I'll fucking kill you— don't think I won't!" He slashed the épée wildly, off-mark.

"Do you really think," said Charles, swinging his cutlass, "you can disarm me with _that_. Oh, chéri. I should like very much to see you try."

Provoked, Lovino attacked. He lunged at Charles, but his head felt heavy and his vision blurred and, clumsy and drunk, he stumbled sideways. Too used to _El Escape_ 's rolling decks, he tripped over his own legs. He clenched the épée's hilt tightly as he caught himself, but his hand shook and the blade wobbled as a result. It clashed harmlessly off the cutlass, steel sliding on steel. The sailors were laughing at him, everyone howling and shouting in delight except for the black-eyed man, who eyed Lovino like a cat watching its prey. It unnerved the boy, who felt naked beneath his gaze. Distracted, he failed to see Charles' attack until it was too late. The heavy cutlass crashed down, ripping the épée from his hand. It hit the ceiling, so lightweight, and then fell with a clatter. Charles clucked his tongue:

"I'll be taking that," he said, retrieving it.

"No, you can't!" Lovino's tongue worked faster than his brain. "It's mine! Toni gave it to me!"

"Oh—?" The black-eyed sailor grabbed Lovino's shoulders from behind, pulling the boy against his chest. His touch sent a shiver of unease, of revulsion, down Lovino's spine. "And who is Toni, mon cher petit? Is he your Papa, your frère— your _amoureux_?" he purred, pressing his lips to Lovino's ear.

"G-get off! D-don't touch me, y-you bastardo—!"

The sailor squeezed Lovino's cheeks, lifting his head. His breath smelled like ripe tobacco.

Charles said: "Arrêtez, Arie. You didn't win a prize, I did." Cheekily, he sheathed his cutlass, sticking the épée into his belt beside it. Then he stepped forward and opened his arms—

—and Arie thrust Lovino into them. He hit the Frenchman's chest and immediately found himself locked in the man's steely embrace.

"Let go! Let go of me!" he struggled, kicking-out. "You fucking bastardos, let go!"

Charles grinned and pushed Lovino back to Arie. Then a third sailor joined the belittling game. And then a fourth. And a fifth. They laughed as they groped the boy, pushing him between their sweaty, masculine bodies. They fisted his shirt, pulling off buttons; they ripped the red sash from his waist, undressing him. They hit him and bruised him. They mocked his helplessness and disorientation, miming his terrified face and shrieks for help. Lovino tried to fight, but they were too strong and too many and he was just a boy. _Just a stupid_ , _reckless boy_. Angry tears filled his eyes. Then Charles grabbed him and threw him against the tabletop. Lovino shielded his tear-streaked face with his hands, and cried: "Just take it," indicating his discarded coat. "Take the gold— take everything, I don't care! Just leave me alone!"

"But chéri," said Arie, pressing down on Lovino's chest, "we _are_ taking everything."

Lovino's hazel eyes grew wide and his lip trembled. Crying, he shook his head. "No, please don't. I-I— I'll give you anything else, please—"

"Hush-hush, petit seigneur." Gently, Arie pressed a finger to Lovino's lips. "Don't waste your lovely voice on useless pleas." He leaned down, nearly nose-to-nose, and whispered: "I only want to hear you scream."

Lovino did scream. He screamed when Arie forced him down, bent over the tabletop. He screamed when the sailors—countless hands—roughly ripped the clothes off his skin. He screamed when Charles fisted a handful of silky, chocolate-brown hair and pressed his cheek against the table's sticky surface. He screamed loudly and continuously, hoping that someone would hear—and care. He cracked one eye opened and saw the tavern's owner watching from a safe distance. Lovino mouthed _help_ but the old man walked away.

Lovino closed his eyes, crying in fear, and braced himself for the inevitable, accompanying pain.

He felt Arie's hard, sweaty cock pressed against his backside, skin-on-skin. He said: "Is that all you've got, mon cher? I bet I can make you scream even louder."

* * *

A loud, ear-splitting scream echoed in the tavern rafters. Birds took flight outside. They heard it on the street. They heard it in the brothel next-door. Several people paused in shock, then hurried onward, afraid of what had happened inside. Lovino heard the terrible, bone-rattling scream and was so frightened by it that it took him a minute to realize it hadn't come from him. It took him a minute to realize that he was no longer trapped against the tabletop, being held down. The sailors had let go and Lovino's knees had buckled. Now he sat on the dirty floor staring in disbelief at Arie's decapitated head, which was facing him; staring at the sailor's bloody body, which was carved from neck to waist like a Christmas pheasant. Slowly Lovino lifted his head and a strangled gasp escaped him.

Antonio was covered in blood: his clothes, his skin, his hair—everything. He looked deadly, like the Antonio from Lovino's nightmare. Only, he didn't look sad or sorry. He looked like a man, a warrior, gone insane.

Lovino watched in horror, utterly petrified as the Spaniard cut through like Frenchman like vegetable stalks. He slashed and stabbed, drawing more hot, sticky blood from the onslaught of bodies. It splattered on the floor and walls; it freckled Lovino, who sat motionless. Charles slipped in the blood of his shipmate and fell beneath Antonio's cutlass. He planted it so deeply into the Frenchman's chest that, instead of withdrawing it, he left it there and attacked the others with his bare hands. He beat them to death, his powerful fists serving blow after blow as his wild green eyes flashed, seething with rage. The last sailor begged for his life, but there was no mercy in Captain Antonio Carriedo. Not tonight. The man's corpse fell with a dull thud.

Then everything went silent.

* * *

 **CARRIEDO**

Antonio collapsed. He sat on his knees in a puddle of blood, breathing hard, surveying the carnage surrounding him. He lifted his shaking hands, covered in blood. And he clutched the cross at his throat. Then he spied Lovino, who was staring at him from beneath the table, and two thoughts bombarded him. The first was: _Lovino's alive_! _He's not hurt_! and his heart leapt in relief. He whispered a prayer of gratitude, squeezing the cross. The second thought, however, was less gratifying. It made Antonio feel physically ill: guilt, shame, embarrassment, fear, and utter failure churned in his stomach like a storm-tossed sea. One horrifying truth monopolized his thoughts: _Lovino saw. Lovino saw all of it. Lovino saw me murder those men. Lovino saw me lose control. Lovino saw what kind of monster I am._

The boy's hazel eyes were red and full of unshed tears. He stared silently at Antonio, his lips parted in shock. His body—his naked, beaten body—was shaking violently, but he didn't seem to notice. He seemed paralysed.

Antonio swallowed. He tasted blood. "Lovi—" he said. It was supposed to be an apology, a question: _Lovino_ , _I'm sorry. Are you okay_? but his nerve deserted him. He choked on Lovino's name and couldn't go on.

Then Lovino did something unexpected. He rose clumsily, like a sleepwalker, and, without taking his eyes off Antonio, slowly walked forward. Absently the boy stepped over the Frenchman's decapitated corpse, bare toes sliding through the blood, and stopped in front of the bewildered Spaniard. "Toni," he said. And fell into Antonio's arms.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Toni, p-please forgive me!" he sobbed, clutching Antonio tight. "It was a mistake. I-I was so scared. I-I tried to— but I wasn't s-strong enough. I'm s-sorry. I should've listened to you. I shouldn't have ran. Ti amo," he whispered, pressing his forehead to Antonio's chest. "Ti amo molto."

Stunned, Antonio wrapped his arms gently around Lovino's shivering body, afraid he might break. He didn't want to hurt him, but the instant his hands touched the boy's cold skin he abandoned caution and pulled Lovino into a fierce hug. Relief flooded him. He cupped the back of Lovino's head and held him protectively, feeling overwhelmed. "No," he said, squeezing his eyes shut. "No, chiquito. It's okay. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for everything. I should've been here. I should've protected you—"

"You did."

"—from myself. You were never supposed to see me like that. I shouldn't have killed these men—"

"I'm glad you did." Deliberately Lovino lifted his head, staring intently into Antonio's emerald-green eyes. In an unforgiving tone, he said: "I'm glad they suffered."

Slowly, Antonio shook his head. "No, you don't understand, Lovi. I could've hurt you—"

Lovino placed a hand over Antonio's mouth, silencing him. "N-no," he denied. A tear rolled down his cheek. "I don't believe it. You would never hurt me."

Antonio took Lovino's soft hand and held it, pressing a bloody kiss to the boy's palm. "Except that tonight I almost did." Tenderly he touched Lovino's injured cheek and smiled sadly. "It's my fault you left. It's my fault you ran away. This"—he indicated the tavern, the corpses, Lovino's abused body—"is all my fault."

* * *

 **VARGAS**

Antonio wrapped Lovino up in his heavy coat and carried the boy back to the wharf. He retrieved the épée, but left the coins. Lovino didn't protest; he didn't want them anyway. He hugged Antonio's neck, hiding his tear-streaked face. He might have been a boy or a girl in the Spaniard's strong arms. He might have been a lord or an orphan, or anyone. He was not Lovino Vargas, wealthy Italian scion. Not just then. Lovino Vargas didn't hate, not truly. And he didn't hurt—not like this. As Antonio walked, the crowd parted. Darkness cloaked his path, but the scent of blood clung steadfast to them both. Nobody spoke as they boarded _El Escape_. Lovino hid his face, feeling ashamed. In a low voice, Antonio said: "Bring hot water and soap." Then they entered the captain's cabin and the night disappeared. The drapes were closed; the door was shut. Antonio set Lovino down on his bed and lit a candelabra.

They were safe.

Antonio sat down beside Lovino and pulled him into a one-armed hug.

Miguel delivered a bucket of steaming-hot water and soap and then left without a word. Antonio took a cloth, soaked it, and gave it to Lovino. "What about you?" the boy asked.

Antonio gave him a half-hearted grin and left the cabin. A minute later Lovino heard a splash: the sound of a body jumping overboard. By the time the Spaniard returned, dripping wet, wearing only his water-darkened trousers, Lovino was clean and dressed in a long, pale nightshirt.

"You're shivering," he noted.

"It's a cold night."

Lovino watched as Antonio toweled himself off and changed into a dry pair of threadbare trousers. His cross glinted in the yellow candlelight, lying flat against his smooth, suntanned skin. Then he went to his bed and kicked-up his legs, leaning tiredly against the headboard, and Lovino crawled in beside him. He wanted to be close to Antonio, partially because of what had happened (a part of him was still so scared), but mostly because he was afraid that if he didn't force the Spaniard now, Antonio might never hold him again. Sure enough, Antonio sighed. But before he could protest, Lovino said:

"You saved me, Toni. Grazie."

"Lovino, don't."

"But it's true." He shifted closer. Antonio's skin was covered in goose-bumps from the cold. "And what I said is true too: Ti amo, Toni."

"Lovino, please don't." Antonio sat up, breaking physical contact. He covered his eyes with his hand. "Don't make this harder than it already is."

Lovino pushed himself onto his elbows, curious. And afraid. "Make what harder? Toni?" When the Spaniard failed to answer, the boy guessed: "You're going to send me away, aren't you?"

"Sí."

"Why?"

"Because you're in danger—"

"No, I am not!" Lovino argued. "I'm fine because you saved me."

But Antonio continued as if Lovino hadn't spoken. "From the moment you boarded this ship three years ago you've been in danger, Lovi. Every goddamned day. I shouldn't have let you stay, but I thought I could protect you. I thought I could keep you safe—"

"You have!"

"—but I was wrong. I can't escape it, I'm cursed with bad-luck. Only, it's never me that gets hurt."

Lovino saw Antonio take a shuddering breath, shoulders shaking. "Toni?" he said, inching closer in concern. Gently he took Antonio's wrist and pulled it down, revealing the Spaniard's grief-stricken face. He might have thought that Antonio regretted killing those sailors, that he was feeling repentant, guilty for the bloodlust that had consumed him. Except that Antonio's green eyes weren't guilty: they were sad. As kindly as possible, Lovino leaned in closer and said: "What aren't you telling me?"

Antonio licked his lips, debating whether or not to speak. Then, slowly, he said: "When I was a child in Italy, Francis and I were inseparable. I loved him, we were always together. We did everything together. He was more than just my foster-brother: he was my best-friend. We had a happy childhood, privileged and spoiled. Your grandfather has never changed," he added, alluding to Lovino and Feliciano's upbringing. "We were absolutely fearless because we didn't think that anything could hurt us, not as long as Roma and his guards protected us. We thought we were safe." He paused then, staring absently at the wrinkled bed-sheets. It was a minute before he continued. "Then one night the guards did to Francis what those sailors tried to do to you tonight. Only, they succeeded.

"I was thirteen when I watched my best-friend get beaten and raped by seven soldiers," he confessed quietly. "I screamed and kicked and cried, trying to fight them, but they were too strong. They held me and made me watch every painful detail of what they did to him. They were going to do the same to me, but Roma saved me. They say he was once the most fearsome warrior in living-memory, a force of conquest by himself. I never really believed it until that night, but as soon as they saw him those soldiers ran as if the devil were after them. It was incredible. He saved me— but he was too late to save Francis. And even though I was terrified, heartbroken for the fate of my friend, all I can remember thinking was: _Gracias a Dios it's not me_. I hated myself for that. For weeks I felt sick with guilt. I tried to apologize for being unable to help him, for being scared, but Francis wouldn't talk about it.

"He changed after that," said Antonio sadly. "He tried to pretend he was okay, but it was fake. He wouldn't look anyone in the eye, not even me. I really don't think he could. I knew that he was hurting, but there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. I felt helpless. I knew that something was wrong with him and it scared me. I was scared he was going to do something bad— to himself. I wanted to help him. I wanted to protect him, but I was too weak. Every time I tried to say something I saw that night as clear as day in my memory and I broke-down. I was too afraid. I couldn't save him. And eventually I lost him.

"One night, about a month after the incident, I woke up and he wasn't there. I searched everywhere, afraid of what he might've done, but he was gone. And he never came back.

"Back then I was angry at him. I didn't understand how he could just leave me without a word: not even an adios. I was only thinking of myself," he said, chancing a glance at Lovino. His voice was choked. "I was only thinking of myself and how desperately afraid I was to be alone in that place. That's why I clung to you and Feliciano, at least in the beginning. I forced myself to become your protector because I was terrified that what happened to Francis would happen again if I wasn't strong enough to stop it. That's when I vowed to protect you and Feliciano, even if you were too young to know why. I promised I would always keep you safe.

"Then"—his green eyes darkened—"four years later I saw them. Three of the men who had beaten and raped my best-friend were sitting in a tavern in Rome. I don't even think they recognized me," he said in a low, hateful tone. "I didn't give them time. I didn't say anything. I just walked in and killed them. I don't know how, but my fear became rage and I beat them to death with my bare hands. That's why I left Italy," he added, facing Lovino. Shadows from the candlelight gave his face a dark, sinister cast. "I left when I was seventeen because I killed those men and I had to get away before anyone found out. I didn't want to put you and your family in jeopardy. I got passage on a ship and sailed north, but I wasn't running. I was hunting. It didn't take long for me to track down the other men and, one-by-one, I killed them too. All of them except one. One of them is still out there.

"I'm sorry, Lovino," he said, noting the boy's tears. "I didn't mean to upset you. It's just one more thing I've failed to protect you from."

Lovino sniffed and shook his head. "No, Toni. If it weren't for you I'd have gotten myself killed a long time ago. Or worse, I'd still be locked-up in Rome. Don't you get it?" he said, taking Antonio's cold hand. "I'm sorry you've suffered. I wish I had known. But, honestly, you could murder a thousand men in cold-blood and I would still love you the same. You would still be Antonio to me. Toni," he said earnestly, kissing the Spaniard's hand, "it's because of you that I've been able to live my life."

"Gracias, Lovino. That means a lot to me, but"—he smiled sadly—"I'm not strong enough to lose anyone else. Especially you.

"That's why you have to go back."


	5. Interlude

**DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers** – **Hidekaz Himaruya**

 **SPANISH GOLD**

* * *

 **INTERLUDE**

 **NORTH SEA, 1738**

Francis Bonnefoi awoke suddenly, bolting upright in bed. His heart was pounding in fear. His sleep-heavy brain could still feel their big, powerful hands holding him: hurting him. He could still hear their phantom voices, laughing. The cabin was dark and icy-cold, but he was flushed and sweating. He felt hot: sticky. He shivered, but didn't know if it was from cold or revulsion. It took him a minute to relax and unclench his jaw. It ached—he must've been clenching in his sleep—from trying not to cry-out. Slowly, as he regained awareness, he calmed down. He leaned forward, letting several blankets pool at his waist, and put his face in his hands.

"Mm, Francis?" said Arthur's groggy voice.

"Pardon," said Francis breathlessly. "I didn't mean to wake you, cher. Go back to sleep."

Francis tensed when Arthur touched his thigh, rubbing gently. The Englishman was buried up to his freckled nose beneath a mound of heavy, winter blankets, but his forest-green eyes were bright in the darkness. The silver cast of moonlight on his pale, fine-featured face made him look otherworldly, like the faeries he believed in, but his sleepy voice was comforting. His presence: the feel of his (usually cold) lean-figured body reminded Francis that he was not alone. As Arthur pushed himself into a sitting position, the ex-pirate was reminded of how often the ex-naval captain had saved him—in more ways than he knew.

"What's wrong, love?" Arthur asked softly, resting his chin on Francis' naked shoulder.

Francis shook his head. "Nothing— just a nightmare."

Arthur lifted a wheat-blonde eyebrow skeptically, but asked: "About what?" His breath tickled Francis' skin.

The Frenchman paused. In the three years he had known Arthur Kirkland—his lover and the father of their two adopted children—they had talked a lot about their respective childhoods, and, while Arthur was unbothered by the grittier details of his (rather neglected) life, Francis had not told him his deepest, darkest secret. Not yet anyway. Even though there had been lots of opportunities to do so—when he felt secure enough, strong enough; when telling Arthur might have brought them closer together—he had kept uncharacteristically quiet about it. It was not a memory that he wanted to relive. And yet, more and more frequently he found himself revisiting the Italy of his childhood in his dreams. If he closed his eyes he could see the garden with the rock waterfall; the classroom he took his lessons in; the grand-hall where he and Antonio had played at being kings; and the bedchamber where his innocence had been forcefully taken—seven times. Involuntarily, he shivered.

"Francis?"

"It's nothing, cher," Francis repeated. "I just— I need to check on the boys."

Arthur's reassurances went unheeded as Francis crawled out of bed and pulled on his trousers. It was cold on the water. His skin pricked with goose-bumps and he could feel _The Lily Maid_ swaying gently as a strong north wind hit her, tethered to a Danish wharf. He hoped that the boys were warm enough: Alfred, who would be sleeping like a rock nonetheless; and Mathieu, who never seemed to feel the cold. _I'm being foolish_ , _they're fine_ , he scolded himself, but he walked faster. By the time he reached the boys' shared cabin his heart was racing. The need to see them and know that they were safe had become overwhelming. "Bébés?" he whispered as he slid the door open.

The boys' cabin was darker than Francis' because it lacked moonlight, but he navigated it based on memory. Alfred's bed was in a cubby on the port-side; Mathieu's was on the starboard-side. As he entered he could hear kitten-soft snores coming from the port-side, and he knew that Alfred was enjoying a deep, restful sleep. The boy still slept like a toddler, his arms and legs flung-out haphazardly like a starfish, dominating as much space as possible. Francis knelt down, smiling at the seven-year-old boy as he touched his rosy cheek. "Alfred, my little fighter," he whispered affectionately. "Sleep well, cher. Papa will keep you safe." He kissed Alfred's forehead and then crossed the room in a single stride. Mathieu was harder to see, buried—like Arthur—beneath several heavy blankets. Only his pale-blonde head was visible. The rest of him was curled into a defensive, unobtrusive ball in the corner. _He's too used to sleeping with Alfred_ , Francis knew. As toddlers the boys had been afraid to be alone, especially at night. Even after Arthur had officially adopted them (Francis couldn't, on account of him being legally dead), their memories of abandonment were still too fresh. "Never again," Francis promised. Gently, he pushed back Mathieu's soft curls, wanting to see the boy's face. "I'll never leave you again, Mathieu, mon ange. I'll never let anything—or anyone—hurt you."

"Night-terrors can't hurt you, love."

Francis glanced at Arthur, who was waiting patiently in the doorframe. He cocked his head in sympathy, hair flopping into his forest-green eyes (it needed cutting—again).

"Oui, I know," he said, feeling foolish now for fearing something so intangible from so long ago. He returned his lover's smile, feeling comforted. _That's not who I am anymore_ , he thought, trying to ignore the ache in his heart. Trying to bury the good memories, which only reminded him of the bad. _I'll never go back to Italy. That part of my life is over. I have the boys now_ , _I have Arthur. I don't need what I left behind._

"Francis," said Arthur's lilting accent, drawing him back to the present. "It's late. Come back to bed, love."

Francis nodded. Tenderly he kissed Mathieu's cheek and then took Arthur's proffered hand. As he left the cabin, he whispered: "Bonne nuit, mes chéris. Je t'aime."


	6. Chapter Four

**DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers** – **Hidekaz Himaruya**

 **SPANISH GOLD**

* * *

 **FOUR**

 **VARGAS**

 **ROME, ITALY**

 **MAY, 1738**

Lovino sat on the window-ledge, staring blankly at the turquoise bay. Bright golden sunlight danced on the clear water and kissed the soft, sandy beach; the sloping white-rock cliffs; the pockets of lush vegetation. The Italian coast was beautiful, but Lovino glared antagonistically at it. He didn't want it. He hadn't lived on the mainland since he was twelve-years-old: over three years. His stomach seemed to drop with _El Escape_ 's anchor as she landed in a secluded bay, located only two hours from Rome. High cliffs and thick, prickly vegetation hid the coastal town from view, but Lovino felt trepidation building inside him. When he spotted a gilded carriage, emblazoned with the Vargas family crest, sitting on the cliff, he deliberately removed himself from the window-ledge in protest and retreated into the cabin's dark. Roma was waiting for him; waiting to take him home.

 _It's not home without Antonio_ , _nowhere is._ Lovino wiped his wet eyes, determined not to cry. He steeled his nerves as best as he could and prepared for departure. He had already fought and cried and begged the Spanish pirate to let him stay, but Antonio's resolve was stronger than Lovino's. _There's nothing left to say_ , he knew. He had already said it all, including _I love you_.

"Lovi?" said Antonio gently. He closed the cabin's door behind him. "Are you ready, chiquito?"

Lovino stubbornly avoided Antonio's eyes. He collected his épée and stuck it into his sash, leaving everything else behind. There was nothing else that belonged to him. In truth, the épée didn't belong to him either—Antonio had bought it—but Lovino couldn't bear to part with it. Leaving _El Escape_ was hard enough. It was the only place where he had ever felt certain of himself, secure and happy; the place he felt free; the place he felt loved. Once he left, the épée would be his only remaining tie to the life he was leaving.

"Lovi," Antonio repeated. Lovino tried to walk past him, but the Spaniard grabbed his forearm. "Please look at me, chiquito. I can't bear to have you mad at me. Please don't hate me."

"Hate you?" Lovino stopped. Standing close, nearly chest-to-chest, he looked deliberately up into Antonio's handsome face. "You really don't get it, do you?"

Before Antonio could reply, Lovino grabbed his shirt-front and pulled him down into a forceful kiss. Antonio tensed, but Lovino refused to let go. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his soft, velvety lips against Antonio's hot mouth, unleashing months of wasted emotion. It was reckless, potentially dangerous, but Lovino didn't care. He had never been a cautious boy; he had always known what he wanted. He had never lied about his desires, not to himself. _Why should I_? he thought, feeling cynical. Fervently, he sucked Antonio's lips, running his tongue over the Spaniard's hot skin. _Why shouldn't he know how I feel_? "Ti amo," he whispered breathlessly. "Sono innamorato di te, Toni."

 _I'm so in love with you._

Antonio took Lovino's face between his hands and passionately returned the kiss. "Yo también te quiero," he confessed.

Lovino closed his eyes, holding back tears. He should have been happy. Antonio had finally spoken the words that Lovino had been waiting to hear; he was finally, soberly kissing Lovino for real; finally admitting how he felt. But, despite the truth of Antonio's words— _he loves me_ ; _he really does love me_ —they did not lift the boy's spirits. In fact, they hurt. Because Lovino knew that it didn't matter. It didn't matter how Antonio felt, or what he believed, or what he wanted. The Spaniard had been denying his own desires for too long; denying himself happiness. Martyr-like, he would do what he thought was best for Lovino, even if that meant leaving the boy forever. Lovino could feel it in the way Antonio kissed him. It felt like heartbreak. It felt like a last kiss.

Tenderly, Antonio took the necklace—the old cross—from around his neck and looped it over Lovino's head. "Adios, Lovino."

* * *

Ah-ha! Mio nipote, Lovino!" Roma enveloped Lovino in a welcoming embrace that smelled like leather and spiced-wine. He kissed the boy's head and cheeks, rocking him enthusiastically back-and-forth. Then he took a step back and held him at arm's length, studying him. "Lovino, just look at you! Look at how much you've grown! Oh! We've missed you, mio tesoro! Welcome home!"

Lovino mustered enough energy to smile wanly for his grandfather's sake, but it felt hollow. He let Roma fuss and gush happily over him, overjoyed to be reunited with his long-lost grandson. He refused to look behind him at the bay, where _El Escape_ was weighing anchor. If he squinted, he would be able to see the crew on-deck. If asked, Lovino wouldn't have admitted how hard it was to leave them—the pirates who had been his family for the past three years—and he wouldn't have expected them to miss him either. However, despite the trouble Lovino had caused, the pirates had hugged him, joked with him, ruffled his hair, patted his back, and shook his hand. "Good-luck, Lovino Vargas," said Miguel, the first-mate. And he actually _smiled_. Which made Lovino want to cry. Unable to speak, he had simply nodded. _If I turn around and see them_ , he thought now, _I'll start crying like a baby_. If he turned and saw Antonio— But no. Antonio had slunk back into his cabin the minute Lovino descended the gangplank. He didn't want to talk to or see Roma; he didn't want to linger in Italy. He had already bid Lovino farewell. He was done.

"Feliciano is going to be so excited to see you, Lovino," said Roma, regaining Lovino's attention. "Your sweet younger brother has missed you so much. We all have."

Lovino eyed the uninterested sentries, who were waiting patiently by the carriage. _I seriously doubt that_ , he thought cynically.

"Signore," said a sentry, politely offering Lovino a hand.

As Lovino climbed into the luxurious carriage, he didn't look back. He stared at the floor, even as Roma slid onto the seat opposite him. The cheerful patron chatted constantly as the carriage left. He regaled Lovino with gossip and stories, discussing the changes in Rome that the boy might not recognize. He spoke of the places he had been, and of Feliciano, who, he reiterated, had desperately missed his older brother. It was not a long carriage-ride from the coast to the capital, but Lovino was tired. Roma talked constantly to try to distract him, but he barely heard a word. It wasn't that Lovino _wanted_ to sully his reunion with his family, who—truth be told—he had missed. He simply couldn't muster the energy to feign pleasantries. (Had he ever?) Fortunately, Roma didn't expect him to. Nor did he poke into the boy's business and ask questions. He let Lovino sit in sullen silence for the duration of the ride, which Lovino was grateful for. Eventually, he rested his head against the cushioned-seat and closed his eyes. _I don't want to see Italy_ , he thought, ignoring the gilded green landscape. Like a child he closed his eyes and wished it away, squeezing Antonio's cross in a fist against his heart. By the time the carriage stopped, Lovino had fallen asleep and Roma had to prod him awake. He woke feeling tired and wiped a stray tear off his cheek. A faint imprint of the cross was pressed into his palm, but faded almost instantly when he let go.

The Vargas family's villa looked exactly as it had three years ago: a shameless display of exorbitant wealth. The only thing that had changed was the boy standing in the courtyard, waiting impatiently.

"Lovino!"

"Ciao, Feli— _oof_!"

Feliciano dove at Lovino, nearly knocking the older sibling off his feet. Lovino stumbled and stepped back to keep his balance, then hugged his brother in return. Feliciano's slender arms coiled around Lovino unabashedly and squeezed him tightly, as if Lovino hadn't run-away without warning; as if he hadn't caused his family grief and worry; as if he hadn't broken his younger brother's heart. When Feliciano finally relaxed his hold and pulled back to properly look at his brother, Lovino saw no resentment in the younger Vargas' beautiful honey-gold eyes.

"Feli," he said, actually smiling, "look at you, you're—" Stunning. Thirteen-year-old Feliciano had grown into a truly beautiful boy. "—taller than you were the last time I saw you. I missed you," he added unexpectedly. The words tumbled out before Lovino could reign his tongue.

"Lovi, fratello." Feliciano's gold eyes beaded with joyful tears. He pulled Lovino into an affectionate embrace. "I missed you too."

* * *

Lovino stood on the threshold of his bedchamber. Not much had changed, yet Lovino felt like a stranger as he stepped inside. The balcony doors were open, sunlight pouring in, and the long drapes slid gently over the polished floor. The decor was rich, walls draped with oil paintings and silk hangings. The luxurious bed that he and Feliciano had shared as children was sitting near the centre beneath a plaster medallion, canopied, and freshly laundered. Lovino absently grazed the bedposts as he walked by, dragging his feet like a sleepwalker. He stopped on the balcony and looked down into the garden below. It was nice, but didn't rekindle any emotions of want or yearning within him. Being away from Italy hadn't made Lovino feel homesick. On the contrary, now that he was back he felt like he had lost something.

 _Something_ , he thought bitterly. _Someone._

"Lovi—?" said Feliciano softly. He sighed. "You're not okay, are you?"

Lovino bit his lip, fighting back tears. _Go away_ , _Feliciano._ He didn't want his younger brother to see him cry, but Feliciano followed Lovino back to the bed and sat down beside him, nearly thigh-to-thigh. He reached for Lovino, but stopped midway. The older Italian clenched his fists on his knees, head bowed, and tried not to shake; tried not to think about _El Escape_ and what his life could have been— _would_ have been—if Antonio had wanted him.

"Lovi," Feliciano repeated. His effeminate tone was kind, sympathetic, which made something inside Lovino break. He felt shameful tears rolling down his cheeks, but couldn't stop them or hide them. He had been biting back tears since leaving the beach, suppressing his feelings for the benefit of Roma and everyone else, but now that he was alone with only nonthreatening Feliciano for company, he felt his strength finally give way. He felt weak. He clutched Antonio's cross and tried to speak, to answer Feliciano, but only managed a strangled gasp. Feliciano's eyes softened, filling with sadness. "I'm sorry," he said, drawing Lovino into a hug. In the circle of his brother's arms, Lovino broke, surrendering entirely to the heartbreak. He fell forward and buried his face in Feliciano's shirt, squeezing his brother and crying bitter tears as Feliciano held him, and repeated: "I'm so sorry, fratello. I'm so, so sorry."

* * *

It took a week, but finally Lovino could get through a full day without bursting into unprovoked tears. He knew that it was making everyone feel uncomfortable, but he didn't care. He wished they would just leave him alone, but, from the moment he left his bedchamber in the morning, he was constantly hounded by people. It was ironic really, since all he had wanted on _El Escape_ was attention; now, he just wanted to mope in peace. He didn't want to smile and laugh and pretend that he was okay, because Feliciano was right: he wasn't okay. He was sad. He was hurting. He only hoped the pain would fade with time.

Lovino hated the attention his return to Rome received, but he suffered it, grudgingly, for the sake of Roma. His self-indulgent grandfather wanted to spoil and show-off his eldest grandson, his heir. Since Lovino had left before his thirteenth birthday, Roma had insisted on celebrating his _coming-of-age_ as a way of formally presenting Lovino to society. The fifteen-year-old lordling was bathed, perfumed, and pushed and pulled—tied and buckled—into layers of expensive ribbons and damask silk, jewels, and plumed feathers. It made him feel like a glass doll: like Feliciano, who was so used to it that he didn't even blink. Lovino, however, hadn't worn so many layers since he was twelve-years-old and found it uncomfortable, too restrictive. The heeled shoes pinched his feet and he tripped, falling against Feliciano, and they both crashed to the floor. His waist was belted too tight, and his coat's chest was too puffy; it felt suffocating. When he reached across the table, his long lace sleeve upset a decanter of red wine and soaked the guests sitting opposite him. _Oh_ , _fuck_! he panicked, fearing , instead of being reprimanded for negligence—Miguel would have ripped into him if he were on _El Escape_ —Roma laughed it off and the guests forgave him, as if they were all afraid that he would burst into tears (again) if they raised their voices.

"Fuck! I'm not fucking fragile!" Lovino complained later to Feliciano. "I lived on a pirate ship for three years! I've seen men killed! I'm not a fucking doll! Sorry," he added, noting Feliciano's wide-eyed stare. His younger brother was like a puppy that had never been scolded, all big-eyed innocence, who flinched whenever anyone yelled. _Feliciano is what they expected me to be_ , Lovino thought, somewhat ruefully. _It's no wonder they're all so surprised_. _They just don't know what to do with me._

Yet, despite his scowls, Rome's illustrious patrons continued to pay Lovino shallow compliments and vie for his coveted attention. He _was_ the city's heir, after all, and earning his good opinion would be invaluable when Roma was gone. Mostly Lovino ignored them, uninterested in anything they had to say. He had been away from the capital for too long to care about their petty troubles and equally petty victories. The worst part, however, was when guests extended their deepest regrets that he had spent three years as the captive of a dangerous criminal. He cringed when they spoke ill of Antonio, Roma's former foster-son, calling him degrading names; saying discourteous, hurtful things that made Lovino's blood boil. "But it's not your fault, Roma. Of course not. It's all in the blood. The boy was— _is_ —just a Spanish orphan: he's got bad blood. He's just a no-good, ungrateful scoundrel—"

"STOP IT!" Lovino yelled. "You don't know what you're talking about! _You don't know anything about him_!"

 _Damaged_ , they called Lovino behind his back. _He's been tricked_ _and lied to by that pirate. It's not the boy's fault_ ; _he's been living with degenerates for too long._ _He's been bewitched_.

"Was it terrible?" the bolder guests asked. "Did he hurt you, torment you? Was it painful?"

"No more than standing here talking to you," Lovino spat with mock-sweetness. Then he left.

By the end of the month, Roma was finally forced to admit that his temperamental grandson was too wild for social events (too wild to be seen in public). "He needs instruction," said Signore Valentinus, who was Roma's second-in-command. "He needs a formal education and lessons in courtly etiquette. Pardon my bluntness, Signore, but the boy's manners are as rude as a wild dog's! He needs a proper role-model, especially if you intend for him to succeed you someday." Lovino eyed Valentinus' pencil-thin mustache disdainfully as he spoke. He was Roma's closest advisor; he had served the Vargas family loyally for decades, like his father before him, but Lovino distrusted the middle-aged man. It was difficult to like a person who praised your bloodline but scorned your upbringing; a person who insisted that you needed to be _refined_. Lovino had never liked him. Valentinus had been too involved in the Vargas brothers' childhood for Lovino's liking, too infatuated with their illustrious bloodline to see the individual underneath. He had always disliked Roma's foster-sons, treating them with mild contempt, and discouraged Roma from taking in _strays_. Lovino was too young when Francis left, but he remembered how Valentinus had always regarded Antonio unkindly. The Italian lord dislike Antonio, so, naturally, Lovino disliked the Italian lord. He was, however, unsurprised when Roma agreed with Valentinus about his education. Lovino was unsurprised, but felt betrayed nonetheless.

"I'm sorry, Lovino. This is my fault, I had not expected you to grow-up while you were gone," Roma admitted regretfully. "It's foolish, I know. You left at such a young age—"

"An impressionable age," Valentinus inserted.

"—but I was expecting the same child who us left three years ago, not this young man that you've become—"

"—without instruction," Valentinus added.

"You're not like Feliciano." Roma patted Lovino's head as if he _were_ still twelve-years-old. He smiled gently, but Lovino still felt belittled. "You've already changed so much."

The acknowledgement that Lovino was only months away from adulthood did little to dispel the illusion of him being anything but helpless, however. Servants were still assigned to cater to him, and guards were still posted to shadow him. He tried to ignore it, as Feliciano did, but Lovino disliked feeling like he was on house-arrest, like a guest in his own home. _This doesn't feel like home_. He tried to quell the homesickness, which grew stronger every day until it finally ebbed into a constant, dull throb. _This isn't where I belong_.

Lessons began shortly thereafter. Lovino tried to protest, insisting that he was not unschooled. In example, he dutifully regurgitated everything (legal) that Antonio had taught him aboard _El Escape._ "Toni made me study every day. He taught me all of my lessons himself, and _he's_ brilliant," he bragged. "He taught me languages and religion and mathematics and science and history; he taught me business and how to sail and trade and fight; he taught me how to be a leader, how to command men." _Toni taught me espionage and embezzlement_ ; _he taught me how to search and destroy_ ; _he taught me how to sneak and hide_ , _how to disappear_ ; _he taught me how to cheat and steal_ ; _he taught me to be cautious_ , _not reckless_ , _but fierce and unafraid_ ; _he taught me how to read people_. He glared back at black-eyed Valentinus. _He taught me how to recognize enemies._

 _He taught me how to survive._

But Lovino's pleas fell on deaf ears. Valentinus was uninterested in anything that Antonio had taught Lovino, confident in his belief that Antonio's intelligence, his talents, were _wrong_. "You will be schooled by a proper tutor," he said, ordering Lovino into the schoolroom. Sitting there, the fifteen-year-old felt like a child. His appointed tutor was well-renowned, but boring as mud. His monotone voice droned on as he lectured, expecting Lovino to take notes, and slapping his knuckles when he didn't. Days became weeks and weeks became months, and Lovino sat in that stuffy old schoolroom daydreaming about _El Escape_ 's highest deck and the wind on his face as he practised his swordsmanship. Feliciano tried his best to encourage Lovino to enjoy his new life. He tried to distract him with games and gossip, but Lovino could only feign interest for so long before Feliciano gave up. A sheltered boy, Feliciano was afraid of incurring his brother's explosive temper. (Feliciano, Lovino observed, never said _no_ to anyone. He simply did what he was told, like a blind man obediently following a guide.) Eventually, Lovino fell into a dull routine. He spent his days subjected to gentlemen, tutors, priests, and physicians, each of whom had been appointed by Valentinus to _refine_ the Vargas family's heir, and to oversee the wellness of his physical, mental, and spiritual health. Roma's lessons—when he could spare the time—were the least gruelling; Lovino actually enjoyed spending time with his grandfather. But the city's great patron was a busy man and he was gone more often than not. Everyone, it seemed, wanted his attention, and he had many obligations and duties to attend to. Lovino loathed the thought of inheriting those duties and having his days filled with people begging for his attention, his wisdom, his money. But, more recently, he loathed the thought of being forced upon some noble maiden who was equally forced upon him. "He's nearly sixteen, past the eligible age for marriage," Valentinus argued insistently. "You're such a— _handsome_ boy, Lovino," he said, though Lovino suspected he wanted to say something else. Secretly, the mere thought of being committed, however forcefully, to anyone except Antonio made Lovino's stomach clench.

By mid-autumn, Lovino began to deliberately fail his lessons. He simply stopped trying. He stopped paying attention and refused to comply when yelled at or yelled and cried in frustration—forever passionate, prone to outbursts of emotion, he couldn't help it—but never lost that fire that Antonio loved. He stood strong against his tutors and Valentinus' cold disdain. "Fuck you!" he would spat, and then find himself locked in his bedchamber as penance, left alone to rage. Lovino became self-destructive, challenging the obstinate Valentinus with a stubbornness of his own, refusing to eat his meals. Short of force-feeding him, there was nothing Valentinus could do except watch his charge lose weight. It worried Feliciano, who cried and begged Lovino to comply—"it's really not so bad, fratello"—but it wasn't until he collapsed in the corridor, taken ill, that Lovino finally surrendered. He needed a change of tactic; throwing tantrums and starving himself had only hurt his brother (and himself). He was nearly five days in bed after that, recovering; five days with Feliciano lying beside him.

"I'm sorry," he said to his frightened younger brother.

"Please don't hurt yourself," Feliciano begged. He looked like a kicked puppy, so afraid. "I don't want to lose you, Lovi. I don't want to be alone again."

That's when Lovino saw it. After months, he finally recognized the look in Feliciano's amber eyes: loneliness. _Of course_ , he thought, feeling guilty, _Nonno Roma is rarely here. Feliciano has been all alone since I left._ He thought of the exuberance with which Feliciano had tackled him in greeting, how happy he had been to be reunited with his older brother, squeezing Lovino as if to prove he was real. Lovino had blamed it on Feliciano's natural flamboyance, but now he saw it as something else. Since birth, Feliciano had never been a robust child (Lovino had always been the stronger of the two), and, because of that, he had spent most of his childhood in a sickroom, too fragile for the world. Too weak a constitution to enjoy his family's company for even brief periods, but he had always cherished them when he could. _Then I left_ , Lovino realized. _And Feliciano was left alone with only men like Valentinus for company_. _I'm such an idiot_! Feliciano's smiles had always been hiding inner-pain. Beneath that pretty, happy-go-lucky facade, he had always been a desperately lonely boy. Looking at him now, Lovino could see it:

 _There's no sadder word than loneliness_ , he thought, feeling its sharp bite.

Tired, he pulled his younger brother into a one-armed hug. "I'm sorry," he repeated. "I'm sorry I left—"

"No, you're not," said Feliciano softly. He lifted his gold-flecked amber eyes—like honey in the candlelight—and smiled kindly. _That smile_ , Lovino saw, _that's why everyone loves him. It's impossible not to. He's so innocent. He speaks with a child's honesty._ "You wanted to go," Feliciano said simply. "You wanted to be with Antonio. You still do. Because you love him."

Twelve-year-old Lovino would have denied it, but fifteen-year-old Lovino did not. "Sì," he smiled, clutching Antonio's gold cross, "I do."

* * *

 **17 MARCH 1739**

Buon compleanno, fratello!" Feliciano cried happily. He kissed his brother's cheeks, then thrust a ribbon-tied basket into Lovino's arms. It was filled with perfectly ripe red tomatoes. Feliciano giggled at the bemused look on Lovino's face. "They've always been your favourite." It was a statement, not a question.

"Grazie, Feli," Lovino said, rolling his eyes. In truth, it was the most thoughtful gift that he had yet received. It was the only gift he had gotten from someone who actually knew him. Others gave him jewels and expensive fabric. ( _I'm not a fucking girl_! he wanted to yell, but was instead forced to smile and thank the gift-givers, who gushed about his looks, insisting that he would look _oh_! _so beautiful_ wearing each trinket.)

Roma had wanted to be there for Lovino's sixteenth birthday—the day he rightfully became an adult, able to inherit on his own—but, unfortunately, bad weather kept him farther north. But it did not prevent him from sending Lovino an extravagantly-wrapped parcel in celebration. His gift was a beautifully decorated sheath for the boy's épée, embroidered with the Vargas family crest. It accompanied a long, flowery letter, the last line of which read:

 _Don't ever forget who you are_ , _Lovino. And whom you want to be._

Lovino was oddly touched by the ambiguous sentiment, and by his grandfather's intuition. _I guess he knows me better than I thought. He really does care_ , he thought, sliding the épée into the sheath. He couldn't help but feel that his grandfather's words sounded suspiciously like parting-words. This, however, he kept to himself. He wore the épée on his belt for the rest of the day, despite Valentinus' blatant disapproval. It, and Feliciano's cheerfulness, made the day bearable. If he had had a choice, Lovino would have wanted to spend his sixteenth birthday like he had spent his fifteenth: just he and Antonio. _But Toni's gone_ , he reminded himself. He hadn't had a word from the Spaniard, not so much as a letter since last May. _It's been almost a year_. _He's not coming back_ , _you have to accept that_! _You have to stop spying on the harbour hoping to see_ El Escape! _Toni's gone_! But repeatedly chastising himself only made him feel miserable and, heartsickness aside, he didn't want to ruin today. It was his birthday, after all, and, if nothing else, Lovino Vargas loved any excuse to celebrate himself.

It was just before bed that the package arrived.

Half-drunk and laughing, Lovino and Feliciano were making their way to Lovino's bedchamber, arms linked, when Feliciano spotted the messenger in the garden below. He drew Lovino's attention to the scene: a messenger was delivering a boxed package to a sentry. He pointed at the ribbon. "I bet it's a birthday gift for you!" he smiled. "Hiya!" he called over the balcony railing. "Is that parcel for Lovi?" The sentry confirmed it, calling that he would bring it up. "What do you suppose it is? It's so late to be receiving a gift. Maybe it's from an admirer!" Feliciano giggled. Giddy from wine, the younger Vargas snatched the package from the sentry and pulled Lovino into the bedchamber to open it in private. "Open it! Open it!" he urged, laying it atop Lovino's bed.

Feliciano's enthusiasm was contagious (or maybe that was the wine). Lovino tore eagerly at the red ribbon, unwrapping the package. He was smiling, joking with his brother, feeling lighthearted—

Then stopped.

"Lovi? What is it? Let me see. Oh! It's so pretty!" he said, lifting a delicate yellow rose. "What's wrong? Don't you like it?"

Lovino had pressed a hand to his mouth, silencing himself, but it did nothing to stall the tears that suddenly flooded his eyes. _A yellow rose_ , _just like the one I_ — He clutched Antonio's cross to his heart. It had been a year since Antonio had taken him to Barcelona for his fifteenth birthday, to the Italian ristorante with the yellow roses; yellow roses that he had plucked and woven into Antonio's hair. The scent was soft but sweet. It triggered a sensory memory as Lovino took the rose from Feliciano, rubbing the petals between his fingers. He could smell the salty sea breeze; he could see the sunset, bathing the garden; he could feel the stone bench beneath him as Antonio pushed him down. He could feel the Spaniard's hungry lips as he stole a misbegotten kiss.

 _That was the first time Toni kissed me. The first time he told me he loved me_.

"Lovi, are you okay?"

Lovino's cheeks were wet with tears, but he smiled. It contradicted his words: "No," he said, confusing his younger brother. Gently, he touched the rose petals to his lips. "I'm not okay."

* * *

 **THE NEXT DAY**

You need to leave."

Lovino blinked. Feliciano had waltzed into his bedchamber and opened the curtains, bathing the entire room in a torrent of bright, golden sunlight. It was early—earlier than Lovino wanted to be awake—but Feliciano's face was set in determination. "Wha—?" Lovino pushed himself onto his elbows, squinting. "What are you talking about, Feli?"

"You. I'm talking about _you_ , Lovi. You're not happy," said Feliciano, matter-of-fact. "And you're not going to be happy until you find Antonio. So you have to leave. You don't belong here anymore, fratello," he said, more kindly. He walked to the edge of the bed and sat down, his head cocked sympathetically. "You belong with Antonio. You're in love with him—"

"It doesn't matter," said Lovino, rolling over. He pulled the blanket over his shoulders, bracing himself into a defensive cocoon. "Love is supposed to be mutual, Feli. It doesn't matter how I feel. I can't force Toni to want me. I can't _make_ him love me back. He made his choice last year and it wasn't me."

"No." Feliciano's delicate fingers smacked him. "You're wrong, Lovi. Antonio _does_ love you, I just know it. He wouldn't have kept you for three years if he didn't. He wouldn't have sent you that rose—"

" _Just stop_!" Lovino snapped. He felt Feliciano flinch in surprise, but, bravely, the boy persevered.

"You're so stupid!" he said, sounding genuinely frustrated. "You're in love, Lovi. You have someone who you love more than anyone else; someone you would do anything for. Don't you know how special that is? Why won't you let yourself be happy?"

"I TRIED!" Lovino bolted upright, the blankets flying off. Antonio's cross flipped over his shoulder, flashing in the sunlight. "Don't you think I've tried, Feli? I tried to prove that I was good enough to stay with him, but I fucked it up. I tried to tell him how much I love him, but he didn't say it back. Do you know how painful that is?" he asked. It was a rhetorical question. Feliciano stayed silent, staring. "And when he finally did say it, it was the last thing he ever said to me. Right before he said goodbye. I've tried, Feli," Lovino repeated in earnest. "But it didn't work. I'm not here because I want to be. I'm here because Antonio wants me to be."

There were tears in Feliciano's eyes, but he ignored them. His voice was quiet. "I don't believe that," he said honestly; decisively. "I think he's scared."

Lovino exhaled. " _Pft._ Toni isn't scared of anything."

"He's scared of losing _you_." Feliciano poked Lovino's chest. "I think that's why he left you here, because he knows that you're safe here; not because he doesn't want you, Lovi. Not because he doesn't love you. He did it for _you_. Everything he's ever done has been for _you_ ; ever since we were children. It's always been you, Lovi. Only you.

"If you don't believe me," he said, pulling a multipage letter from his pocket, "then read this."

Lovino took it, frowning. "What is it?" he asked skeptically.

"I found it in Nonno Roma's study. It's the letter Antonio wrote to him a month before he brought you back. Read it," Feliciano urged, "and if you still don't believe that he's desperately in love with you too, then I'll never bother you about it again. I'll leave you to your misery, I promise."

That said, Feliciano left.

Lovino stared down at the crumpled letter in his hand, feeling suddenly intimidated by it. This was the letter that Antonio had hidden from him on _El Escape_ ; the letter that he had kept locked-up. This was the letter that he was never meant to read. It was a culmination of the Spaniard's most private thoughts, like reading his diary. It had been Antonio's plea for help. Cautiously, Lovino unfolded it. Immediately he recognized the poetic handwriting. _Toni_. His heartbeat skipped. The letter felt dangerous. Like an explosive, it had the power to completely destroy him. What if he didn't like what he read? What if Feliciano was wrong? Lovino swallowed. _This is how Toni really feels about me_. _Do I really want to know_? Despite what he had told Feliciano, he didn't think he could bear it if he had confirmation that Antonio didn't love him back. He clenched the letter. _If I don't read it_ , _I can still hope_ —

He read.

* * *

Feliciano waited outside Lovino's bedchamber, his ear pressed childishly to the door, hoping to hear a gasp or a cry of exclamation. Feliciano had nearly cried-out when reading the letter and it hadn't even been about him. His heart went out to Lovino, of course, but he also felt the tiniest stab of jealousy. Having read the letter, it was obvious that Antonio returned Lovino's feelings; that he was madly in love with the older Vargas brother just as much as Lovino loved him. Why then, had he sent him away? _He's scared of losing you_ , that's what Feliciano had told Lovino. It was tragic—but oh! so romantic. _I wish someone would feel like that about me_ , he daydreamed. _I wish someone loved me the way Antonio loves you_ , _Lovi. You don't realize how lucky you are._ But that, of course, was Feliciano's little secret. He truly wanted his brother to be happy, and envy was such an ugly emotion. When a maid-servant paused and asked what he was doing, Feliciano hurried her along with a dismissive wave. Lovino was taking a long time to read Antonio's letter. Feliciano shifted, wondering if he should re-enter the bedchamber. _But what if he's crying_? Lovino _had_ been crying a lot lately, more than Feliciano had ever seen him before, but there was nothing sad about Antonio's words. Not in his opinion anyway. They were all words of love. _How can you hurt someone with words of love_?

As the minutes ticked by, Feliciano grew more impatient, wondering if giving Lovino the letter had been the right thing. Then, just as he was preparing to re-enter, the bedchamber's door opened and Feliciano lost his balance. He found himself lying on his belly on the floor, staring up at an incredulous Lovino. The boy's dark eyebrows drew down over burning hazel eyes and he glared. He grabbed Feliciano and dragged him back inside. He let the door slam behind him, and then proceeded to pace back-and-forth in agitation. Feliciano picked himself up off the floor, dusting his bruised knees, and watched his brother pace like a tethered wolf.

"That bastardo," he growled under his breath. He clenched the multipage letter in his fist. "I can't believe he didn't tell me. For three years! I was right there for _three fucking years_ , completely in love with him, but not once did he— I mean, I can't believe he didn't— He never said—" Lovino exhaled in frustration. "He didn't tell me anything! He didn't tell me he felt this way! He just pushed me away, the bastardo!" He turned on Feliciano, who flinched in reflex. "If this really is true," he waved the letter aloft, "then why the hell did he send me away?!"

Feliciano relaxed. "So you believe me now?" he asked, crossing his arms. "I told you Antonio loves you."

"A lot of good that does me from here!" Lovino raged, red-faced in disbelief; in embarrassment. "Feli, why did you show me this? What am I supposed to do?"

Feliciano rolled his eyes. "Isn't it clear? Find him, of course!"

"But it's been a year, I don't know where he is—"

"Lovi, you're forgetting how well-connected the Vargas family is," Feliciano interrupted. "Nonno Roma has friends, informants, absolutely everywhere. If Antonio is in the Mediterranean, we'll find him. _El Escape_ isn't exactly a ghost-ship; she's known; she's wanted," he added dauntingly. Cautiously, he advanced on his brother. "It might take a little time," he touched Lovino's shoulder in support, "but we'll find Antonio, I promise."

Lovino cocked an eyebrow, a half-smile tugging at his lips. "You make a lot of promises. Did you know that?"

Feliciano smiled. "I deliver on them all— _I promise_. I want you to be happy, Lovi. You deserve to be happy."

* * *

 **TWO WEEKS LATER**

Lovino! Lovino!" Feliciano burst into the schoolroom, where Lovino was transcribing entire doctrines in punishment. The tutor's head snapped up at the disturbance, shock melting into indulgent scolding when he recognized Feliciano. He told Feliciano to leave, but the boy refused. "No," he said, surprising the tutor. "I need to speak to Lovi right now, in _private_ ," he emphasized, worrying at his bottom lip. Lovino could see that he was nervous; because of his news or the tutor's displeasure, Lovino didn't know. He stood determined, though, until the tutor had vacated the schoolroom.

"Feli," said Lovino, disregarding his work. "Are you okay? You look pale— _ach_!"

"Lovi!" Feliciano gasped, grabbing him. His hands were weak, shaking. "I'm sorry, Lovi— I'm so, _so_ sorry!"

Lovino tensed. Feliciano's tone, the stricken look on his face, did not promise good news. "Feli," he repeated as he untangled his brother's grasping hands. In a careful tone, one reserved for Feliciano, he asked: "What's wrong?"

"I-I— I overheard a conversation in the library," Feliciano admitted. He looked guilty, not quiet repentant, but afraid of breaking the rules. "A visitor from Naples was talking to Signore Valentinus. He didn't really sound like he was from Naples, his accent wasn't Italian, but he was asking Valentinus about _Signore Roma's Spanish ward_ , _the pirate_." Lovino caught his breath, but didn't interrupt. It seemed that, after a long fortnight of sending out letters and requests for information, news of Antonio's whereabouts had come to them in the form of simple gossip. "He brought Signore Valentinus word that Antonio— Well, he said—" Feliciano bit his bottom lip, brow furrowed.

"Feli—?" Lovino's heart was pounding. He grabbed his brother's biceps and shook him. "Feli, tell me!" he ordered. "Is he—" _dead_? Lovino couldn't say it. A horrible pain was bubbling up inside of him. He denied it, forcing it down. _No_ , _Toni's not dead. He can't be dead._ But, even as he thought the words, tears fell from his eyes. He squeezed them shut, afraid of what was coming.

Feliciano's look was sympathetic. "I'm so sorry, Lovino. But it's true. _El Escape_ was set upon off the coast of Naples. It was bad-luck, a miscalculation. The ship escaped, but Antonio was captured. He sacrificed himself for the ship, the crew. I just know he did. He's so kind. But now he's—"

 _Dead_. Lovino felt his heart constrict.

"—in prison," Feliciano finished.

Lovino's eyes flew open. "He's alive?!" he gasped.

Feliciano was taken aback. "Uh, sì—? But not for long, I'm afraid. His sentence has already been determined. He's scheduled for execution. Lovi, I—"

"When?!" Lovino demanded. His heart was racing. He squeezed Feliciano's biceps, as if he could squeeze the information out of him. He felt frantic, the threat of Antonio's pending death eating at his patience. _No_ , _not Toni. He can't die_ , _I won't let him— the bastard_! _Tell me_ , _Feliciano_! _I'll find him. Tell me and I swear I'll save him_! _Tell me_ , _please_! _Just give me some time_!"Feliciano—?! When will Toni die?"

Feliciano's eyes shone with helpless tears. He looked as scared as Lovino felt. He said:

"The day after tomorrow."


	7. Chapter Five

**DISCLAIMER:** **Hetalia: Axis Powers** **– Hidekaz Himaruya**

 **SPANISH GOLD**

* * *

 **FIVE**

 **CARRIEDO**

Antonio squeezed his eyes shut, but they burned. Old, syrupy pickle juice seeped past his defenses and pierced his eyeballs and the back of his throat, coating his teeth and tongue with the sharp taste of rancid, months-old liquid. The vinegar stung the cuts and bruises on his skin, making his swollen face throb painfully, worse now than when each blow had been brutally inflicted. The Italian jailor tugged Antonio back by the hair, letting him cough and gasp for only a second before he plunged the Spaniard back into the pickle barrel. This time Antonio swallowed a mouthful of juice before he snapped his dry lips closed. He was so thirsty he almost welcomed the relief of liquid, but knew the salt would only dehydrate him more. He was so dizzy, even on his hands-and-knees he had trouble staying upright. His head pounded like a drum. The taste, the putrid smell, and the back-and-forth motion of being dunked repeatedly head-first into the old pickle barrel was making him nauseous. Never-mind the whiff of body odour and stale urine he got when his head emerged. And permeating it all was the metallic scent of fresh blood. His blood. If he hadn't been starving, the pirate captain would have vomited on the jailor tormenting him.

Finally, Antonio heard the warden say: "Stop."

He gasped and coughed as pickle juice dripped from his face, his hair. He spat on the filthy, flagstone floor, doubled-over on his hands-and-knees as he fought the urge to be sick. He gagged, his body convulsing. Opening his eyes was painful; they stung wickedly. His green eyes were drooping from exhaustion and dehydration. They shone an angry, irritated red; his lids had a sickly, yellowish pallor. When Antonio caught his reflection in the guard's polished breastplate, he quickly looked away.

"Bring the Spanish bastardo here," ordered the warden.

Antonio's legs felt like jelly as he was yanked to his feet and bullied to a long, wooden table. He could see past imprints and stains of unpleasantness in the grains. The jailor pushed and pulled him, and Antonio was made to bend over the edge, his cheek pressed to the surface. He felt the jailor's stout, sweaty body forced against his backside, using his weight as leverage to hold the Spaniard in place.

The warden circled the table, lighting a cigarette as he did. "Where is _El Escape_?" he asked conversationally.

Antonio twisted his head, glaring blackly at the warden, ringleader of his discomfort, but he remained silent.

The warden sighed. "Listen here, pirate-rat," he spat. He leaned down condescendingly. "I know you know that I know you know where that blasted ship is, so— _tell me_!" No sooner had the words left his lips than the burning cigarette was ground roughly into Antonio's cheek, extinguishing it. Antonio winced, squeezing his eyes shut. "Fuck," the Italian growled.

He snapped his fingers at the waiting guard, who was a huge, light-eyed blonde with a broad chest and arms like tree trunks. No doubt, he had come to Italy as a mercenary from the north. On orders, he grabbed the Spaniard's arm and flattened it against the tabletop, no more hindered by Antonio's struggles than by a child's. _Well this isn't good_ , Antonio thought bleakly. The Italians were brutal, but didn't possess the same caliber of strength this half-giant did. _God_ , _I hate Germans._ The guard's powerful elbow came suddenly down on Antonio's forearm, bruising it. He grunted at the impact, finding it harder and harder to bite his tongue. The last thing he wanted was to cry-out, as if voicing discomfort would break his dignity. Yet, he couldn't deny his fear. He tried but failed to prevent his fingers from trembling, especially when the guard splayed them over the tabletop and the warden grabbed a mallet. Antonio's eyes grew wide, but, with the jailor on top of him and the north-born guard holding him, there was nothing he could do but watch in horror as the warden drew nearer.

"Where," he said deliberately, as if Antonio was a particularly stubborn schoolboy, "is that _fucking ship_?!"

In reply, Antonio squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth.

The mallet came down hard on his hand, crushing the bones. Antonio screamed out-loud, unable to subdue his voice. It was loud and anguished, a howl of intense pain. Blood coated his teeth; he had bitten his tongue.

"Something you want to tell me, _Spanish-rat_?"

Antonio's whole body trembled from the shock. Slowly, he nodded.

The warden gestured to the guard, who released the pitiful Spaniard. A shameful whine escaped him when the jailor tugged his head up to face the warden, who looked self-satisfied. Antonio's bloody lips parted, struggling to bite-out words. "Hmm? What's that?" asked the warden, leaning closer.

Antonio waited until he was mere inches away, then spat bloody saliva in the Italian's face. "¡Que te den!"

The warden's fist hit him so hard, he felt his neck crack.

He fell to his knees and gagged, choking on pickle juice as he regurgitated what he had swallowed.

"You've wasted my patience, boy," said the warden, wiping his face with a handkerchief. "All you had to do was tell me where to find _El Escape_. Now, instead of a nice, clean hanging, I'm going to make you suffer. Oh? Perhaps you thought this _was_ suffering—?" he teased, noting Antonio's look of disbelief. The warden stood to his full height—which was still shorter than Antonio's—and maliciously uncoiled a leather whip from a hook on the wall. "I'm going to make you regret every life-choice you ever made. And I'm going to enjoy it. I'm going to make you scream, boy. I'm going to make you admit every dirty deed you've ever done. Thought it'd be fun to be a pirate, did you? Thought it'd be worth it to murder, and pillage, and rape? Thought you'd get away with it, did you?" He kicked Antonio as he passed, heading toward the pickle barrel. Antonio gasped; his broken ribs ached in pain. "Thought you were special, did you?" the warden continued. He pierced Antonio with a disgusted glare. "Thought you could kidnap the Vargas family's heir and not suffer the consequences?"

Antonio's body was breaking, piece-by-piece, but the mention of Lovino hurt worse. It hurt his heart. He had tried so hard not to think of the boy he loved, especially since he had been captured. _I'm sorry_ , _Lovi_ , he thought, like a man at the noose. As the jailor dragged Antonio to his feet, he finally let himself remember Lovino. As they roped his wrists together around a pillar, he pictured Lovino's beautiful face, those gold-flecked hazel eyes so full of passion and fire; those lips so ripe for kissing, so heartbreakingly sweet when he smiled. As they ripped the drenched shirt off his back, Antonio focused on the sound of Lovino's voice, his laugh; the breathless whispers that had sent a chill of desire down Antonio's spine. He missed Lovino; ached for him. Being without the boy was like being bereft of sunlight, cold, and dark, and depressed. And hopeless. _At least he's safe_ , Antonio consoled himself. _At least I could do that much for him_. In his peripheral vision, he saw the warden douse the whip in pickle juice, grinning sadistically as he did so. He heard the _crack_ as he tested it's bite. _Lovino_ , he distracted himself. He closed his eyes. _Lovino_ , _I hope you're happy. All I ever wanted was for you to be happy. I love you_. His whole body shivered in fear. The slow, steady sound of the warden's boots drew closer. _I love you_ , _Lovino. I've always loved you. I always will._

" _Lovi_ —" he whispered.

Then the whip came down.

* * *

 **VARGAS**

Wait!" Lovino called as he chased the Neapolitan visitor (who was not Neapolitan at all). He sped down the corridor barefoot, having kicked-off his heeled shoes in pursuit, and finally caught the visitor as he entered a covered gallery. There the man stopped and waited, careful to keep out of view of the gardens, where sentries patrolled. He was nearly as tall as Antonio, but broader in the chest. He was wearing a knee-long velvet coat trimmed in gold tassels, with a silk shirt underneath; his breeches hugged his legs tightly, his stockings pulled to his kneecaps, his feet encased in buckled shoes. On his head sat a cocked cap with dyed plumage hanging in his face. It was the richly embroidered ensemble of a gentleman; the cut was exquisite. It looked fitfully uncomfortable, as did the man wearing it. It looked gentlemanly. It looked—Lovino thought—absolutely ridiculous.

"Miguel!" he gasped. He fought the urge to hug _El Escape'_ s first-mate, so glad to see him.

Miguel's hawkish eyes characteristically glared, but he said: "It took you long enough, Lovino. I've been here since dawn."

"Toni," Lovino said, ignoring Miguel's complaint. "Is it true? Is he—" He bit his lip; he couldn't say it.

Miguel's face softened for a fleeting second, then he said: "Why else would I be here?"

The hardness in the first-mate's tone was so familiar to Lovino that he felt tears prick his eyes, but he quickly blinked. The last thing he wanted was to sully their reunion with blubbering. Besides, Lovino was not the child he had been three years ago and was determined not to behave like one. He would not regard Miguel as a saviour, like a little boy letting an adult protect him, but instead he looked at him like an accomplice. An equal. "Where is _El Escape_?" he asked, steely in determination.

The ghost of a proud smile lifted Miguel's lips. "Where can we talk in private?"

Lovino took Miguel, dodging sentries and serving-staff, to his bedchamber, where Feliciano was waiting. Too impatient for information, Lovino disregarded introductions and launched into a volley of fervent questions, showing his youth in his demand for answers. Miguel sat the Italians down, recognizing the same energy in Feliciano. He told them that _El Escape_ was hidden—waiting for them—in an inlet five miles east of the city-proper. The crew had agreed that the danger was worth risking to rescue Antonio, which touched Lovino's heart on the Spaniard's behalf. _He really is loved_ , he thought, smiling despite the situation. Miguel reported that the ship would be safe for a few hours yet, but it couldn't sit there like a target forever. He need not have bothered; the countdown to Antonio's impending execution was enough of a deadline. "We've got plenty of weapons and ammunition," Miguel said ( _El Escape_ was always armed), "but they're holding the capitán at the fort. She'll never get close enough to attack, and, even if she does, there are too many guns. It would be suicide."

"So," said Lovino anxiously, "we'll just have to get inside by means other than force."

Miguel frowned, as if he doubted the effectiveness of any plan without force. "I hope you're not suggesting we walk right in," he said skeptically.

Frustrated, Lovino started to pace. "No, I'm not. I just—" He kicked a table, upsetting a box atop it. It was full of trinkets he had received as gifts. "Maybe we could bribe the guards?" he suggested.

Miguel shook his head. "Capitán Carriedo is too high-profile a criminal. The Italian military has been after _El Escape_ for too long. A bribe wouldn't go unnoticed, and not even the lowest station of guards would risk the noose for money." He paused then, long enough to roll his eyes at Lovino, who had tripped on a length of silk. "A small number of us might be able to sneak onto the grounds," he continued, "but it's doubtful that we could find and free the capitán before being discovered. It's suicide," he repeated. "If you've got a better idea," he added, noting Lovino's displeasure, "now would be the time, little lordling." He balled-up an embroidered headscarf and chucked it at the boy.

Lovino clenched it, fighting the need to tear it in frustration.

Feliciano said: "Maybe we could parley with the warden? Buy Toni's freedom?"

Miguel snorted. "Spoken like true nobility."

Feliciano bowed his head, toying with a string of glossy pearls. "I just thought—"

"Never-mind," Miguel exhaled. He looked tired. "I shouldn't have come here. There's nothing you can do for him," he said placidly. It was the closest that the first-mate ever came to showing sympathy. "Capitán Carriedo would never forgive me if I endangered you, Lovino. He's been protecting you since—"

"I don't need his protection!" Lovino burst. "I need him alive! I need him here with me!" he yelled, clenching his fists. His whole body was shaking as he tried desperately not to cry. Fear, grief, and anger all fought for dominance within him, making him feel like cornered-prey. But, for once, he didn't feel weak; he wanted to attack. He grabbed a silver-backed hairbrush and fired it across the room. It landed on a pair of bejeweled shoes. "I'm not useless," he said aloud, as much to himself as to his audience. "There has to be something I can do. I'm a pirate!" he snarled viciously, taking pride in the label. "Toni needs me. This time _he_ needs _me._ I'm not just going to let him die. I'm not a baby who needs his protection. I'm not some delicate fucking damsel, who—"

Lovino stopped midsentence. His face changed in wonder. He scanned the bedchamber as if seeing it anew; seeing the potential. It was untidy. All the birthday gifts Lovino had received, the ones he had scorned, were scattered haphazardly in piles. He saw shirts, coats, cloaks, hats, veils, stockings, and heeled shoes; he saw gemstones, jewelry, and hairpins; he saw a box of cosmetics. What he didn't have, he could steal. Briefly, he considered the scullery. Then the stable: he would need a fast horse (a well-behaved horse, since he hadn't ridden in four years). Vaguely, he knew that Miguel and Feliciano were watching him in puzzlement, but they didn't interrupt his search as he collected items, muttering incoherently to himself as a plan took shape. Finally, when the first-mate had enough, he cleared his throat. Lovino stopped in the centre of the bedchamber, carrying an armful of clothes.

"Lovi—?" Feliciano questioned.

Lovino's eyes flashed, the fire reignited. He said: "I have an idea."

* * *

 _O-oh—_! _Nn_ , _mm— g-gah_!" Lovino squeezed the sideboard, crying-out in pain. " _Miguel_ , _I-I can't— Ah_! FUCK!"

"Oh, pipe-down. It can't be that bad," said Miguel's voice behind him. He tugged the laces tighter. Lovino felt the bones dig into his ribs, constricting his waist into a perfect hourglass. "It's just a corset," Miguel dismissed. "And it has to be tight"—he pushed his knee against Lovino's back for leverage; Lovino gasped—"else it won't look like you've got a woman's curves. Fuck. Hold your breath," he advised.

When Lovino had initially shared his plan, Miguel's face twisted as if he had swallowed something rotten. He had shook his head in refusal, repeating his promise to keep Lovino safe. But as Lovino explained, Miguel's expression had relented in defeat. It helped, too, that Feliciano had jumped up in enthusiastic support. When Lovino had tried to leave Feliciano behind, however, the younger Vargas had argued stubbornly back. "Toni was my brother just as much as he was yours," he had snapped. "Don't make the mistake of thinking you're the only one who loves him, Lovi." After that, Lovino had accepted his brother's help. "Besides," Feliciano had added slyly, "you'll need a distraction inside the fort, and I am _very_ good at distracting people. It'll be more believable if there's two of us anyway. We can be sisters," he teased. "What sort of a noblewoman visits her imprisoned lover alone?"

"A scandalized one," Lovino replied.

They had waited until sunset, much to Lovino's displeasure. He had wanted to act immediately, but he knew that his plan required the cover of darkness. Miguel had handled the grooms—"but please don't hurt them," Feliciano begged—while the Vargas brothers saddled two fast horses. Getting past the gate was the trickiest part, but Feliciano had been right: he _was_ good at creating distractions, and soon the trio were riding eastward from the Vargas' house. It was a mild night, the sunset a blazing scorch on the dark horizon. _El Escape_ was sitting in a hidden bay, as promised. When the crew spotted Miguel's signal, they sent a longboat to fetch them from the shore. "What's in the bag?" Jorge asked, lifting one, surprised by its lightweight. After a sober reunion with what was left of the small crew—who eyed Feliciano in a way that Lovino disliked—Lovino repeated his plan. Like Miguel, they hesitated, but Lovino's fierce tone silenced any complaints. "If any of you have a better idea," he recycled Miguel's words, "then I would love to hear it. No? Then shut the fuck up and weigh anchor!" he snapped. That said, he led Feliciano into Antonio's private cabin, where he had spent the last (best) three years of his life.

"You heard the little lord," Miguel called sternly. "Hoist the mains!"

Lovino had grinned, secretly proud of himself.

" _Son-of-a-fucking-whore_!" he cursed now, as Miguel fasted the corset's laces. " _Ow_!"

"Stop whining," Miguel criticized.

"Oh?" said Lovino, taking Miguel's hand in assistance. He stood up and exhaled slowly. "Let's stuff you into a corset and see how you feel about it, fat-ass."

Feliciano snorted. Already dressed, looking spectacularly disguised in a tight-waisted gold dress and pearls, he was standing in front of the wall-mirror, artfully dusting his cheeks with rouge. Later, when Lovino was struggling to effeminize his features, Feliciano took the cosmetic brush in one hand and Lovino's chin in the other and made-up his brother's face like an artist painting a canvas. Then he pinned Lovino's dark hair in a way that made it look longer beneath a cherry-red headscarf, decorated with jewels that bit into the Italian's scalp. Lovino looked at his reflection, half-horrified, half in admiration. "You are suspiciously good at this," he said, eyeing his younger brother, who merely shrugged.

Feliciano had barely spoken since they had left home, which was uncharacteristic of his constant chatter. He might have been scared or nervous. In fact, Lovino was certain he was, having rarely left the safety of Rome. Feliciano had never been so unguarded before, always secure in the knowledge that someone would protect him from potential harm, never left alone to make mistakes. Lovino, however, was less worried about his brother's nerves than about his health, which had always been delicate. He feared what too great a shock might do to him. Had Feliciano ever seen a battle before? Or even a fight? Had he ever seen blood that wasn't being let by a physician? Lovino doubted it.

"I'm perfectly fine," Feliciano said when asked. "I'll do whatever I have to do to rescue Toni. I won't let you down, Lovi. You'll be together again soon, I promise."

At half-ten, Lovino and Feliciano emerged on-deck disguised as two noblewomen. The crew wolf-howled in appreciation, joking to ease the tension everyone felt. Lovino disregarded it; he didn't even blush, or yell. He just said: "That's it, get it out of your systems now." He even turned in a circle, lifting both middle-fingers as he did. Once sated, the crew fell silent, awaiting orders. _Lovino's_ orders. The sixteen-year-old boy repeated the plan one last time, making sure everyone knew what they were supposed to do. Even disguised, it was dangerous. If Lovino and Feliciano were found out, the punishment would be severe. Not to mention, Antonio would— _No_ , _I won't think like that. I can't._ The only thing keeping Lovino from breaking-down was the hope that it wasn't too late to save the man he loved.

At a quarter to midnight, _El Escape_ approached the fort, flying an ambiguous Italian flag. She maintained a safe distance, avoiding the main gate and the biggest guns. "That flag won't fool them for long, you've got half-an-hour tops," Jorge said. Miguel, disguised as the Neapolitan noble, ushered the Italians into a longboat. As it descended, the waves rising up to meet them, Feliciano grabbed his brother's hand. Lovino squeezed in reassurance, trying to remain calm for his brother's sake, but his heart was racing. A heavy fog rolled over the rocks as they neared the escarpment, paddling cautiously toward the tall gate. Two guardsmen called-out to Miguel, who answered, feigning a Neapolitan accent when Lovino suggested it. One of the guards offered Lovino a hand, which he took, letting Miguel half-lift him out of the longboat and onto the dock. The motion was repeated with Feliciano, and then Miguel pulled himself out. Lovino let the guards leer at he and Feliciano, playing the role of distraught lady to the best of his ability. It wasn't all that difficult, considering that the distraught part was entirely true. He held tightly to Feliciano's hand, pretending to need his _sister's_ comfort as Miguel explained the situation.

"Please, signori. M'lady wishes to see the prisoner."

"Please," said Feliciano, barely disguising his effeminate voice. "Have a heart, signori. Mia sorella only wants to see her love one last time, to say goodbye to him. _Please_ ," he repeated, adding a bereft sigh. He bat his eyelashes and puckered his pomegranate lips. "You don't think we have anything to hide, do you? You're not going to search us, are you?" he asked, innocently hiking the gold dress high enough to expose most of his shapely leg.

Lovino saw the guards exchange a hungry look. No doubt, it had been months since they had seen a woman, and they thought Feliciano a very weak-willed maid, ripe for taking advantage of—which is exactly what Feliciano had intended. He let one guard rub his leg in inspection, pretending to shiver coyly. When the other tried to touch Lovino, he let out a hysterical howl of grief and called-out Antonio's name, and the guard leapt back in shock. Feliciano pulled Lovino into a sympathetic hug, petting his head like a dutiful sister.

"Please," he begged. "Please let her see him. I would be _so_ grateful if you did."

They waited while the guards sent a message to the warden, asking for permission to admit Lovino. Lovino's heart was beating so fast he felt hot beneath the layers he wore. Fortunately, it worked in his favour. He really looked like someone anxiously awaiting a verdict; someone desperately heartbroken.

It didn't take long for an answer to return. "I'll escort you, Signora," said the messenger-guard, smiling as he extended a guiding hand toward the entrance.

Lovino was led down a long, windowless corridor that twisted downhill. His shoes clapped on the stone steps as he descended, taking the guard's hand to maintain his guise and his balance. The steep stairs were wet and warped, and the further down they ventured, the muskier the air became, forcing Lovino to press a perfumed handkerchief to his nose. The cells were horrible; he felt angry just thinking of Antonio being locked inside one. When a pitiful moan bounced off the walls, the boy jumped, inviting the guard to slam an armoured boot into the bars to quiet the inmate. Lovino tightened his hold on the handkerchief. They had almost reached the end of the long corridor when the guard finally stopped.

"He's there." He pointed to a dark cell. "I can't let you in."

Lovino glared at the guard until he finally got the message and stepped back to give the couple the illusion of privacy. Only then did he look into the cell.

It was a small box of wet stone and dirty straw. There was no window, but the guard's lantern was enough to illuminate a body lying against the farthest wall. He was curled into a defensive position—protecting himself from the chill or physical abuse, Lovino didn't know—and was utterly still. He was filthy, his lovely suntanned skin covered in a layer of blood and grime, and wearing soiled breeches. Lovino stopped directly in front of the cell, afraid to let his eyes travel upward. When he did, he failed to suck back a sob. Antonio's bare back was scored with angry lashes, too many to count. Just then he was glad for the dim light; he didn't want to see those ugly wounds in greater detail. He grasped the cell's bars, and called:

"Toni." His voice broke. He tried again. "Toni," he said louder. "Please, darling. Toni, it's me. Please wake up. Please," he addressed the guard in distress, "let me in, he needs me."

"I'm sorry, Signora. My orders were to keep the cell locked."

Lovino clenched the bars tightly, letting a note of anger permeate his tone. "Toni, you bastardo! Wake up!"

This time, Antonio stirred. Lovino heard him utter a soft moan, then saw him try to rise. With intense effort, he pushed himself onto his cut elbows and cast a dazed look over-the-shoulder. Again, Lovino struggled to contain his grief. The Spaniard's handsome face had been brutally beaten. There was dried blood in his hairline and fresh blood on his cheek. His eyes, so alive before, barely opened, as if the lantern's dim light hurt. His breathing was laboured as he studied Lovino, trying to identify him. He looked confused at first, fooled by the female disguise. But when Lovino said: "Toni, it's me, you bastardo," Antonio's eyes opened wide in realization. He let out a whine and forced himself to his feet, staggering as fast as he could across the cell. He reached the bars and thrust his arms through, wrapping the boy in an awkward embrace.

"Lovino," he whispered, too soft for the guard's ears. His voice sounded strangled, raw in disuse. "How—?"

"It's okay." Lovino's voice quivered as he held Antonio, inhibited by the cell's bars. He stroked the Spaniard's greasy hair, trying to press himself closer. Gently, he kissed Antonio's bruised cheek, his lips trembling. "It's okay, I'm here. Toni, I'm here."

"No," Antonio denied, burying his face in the folds of Lovino's disguise. "I'm dreaming. You can't be here."

Lovino's heart ached. He had thought twelve months apart had taught him the meaning of pain, of yearning, but, over the past year, the sharpness of that pain had ebbed into a constant throb. Now it was fresh, like a reopened wound, and it stung with a vengeance. He need not fake tears for the guard's benefit; they were already falling freely and naturally from his eyes. He couldn't stop—but he had to. He couldn't fall apart, not yet. He had to rescue Antonio.

"You bastardo," he said sternly, "of course I'm here. Did you really think I'd leave you?"

Antonio lifted his head, green eyes bloodshot and shining. "I thought I'd never see you again. I thought—" He broke off, coughing. "I thought I would die without ever seeing you again."

"You're not going to die," Lovino whispered fiercely. "I would never forgive you if you did. You can't leave me alone, Toni, which is why I'm not leaving you here."

Despite his depleted health, Antonio managed a smile. " Te quiero, chiquito," he said, touching Lovino's rosy cheek. "Te quiero, mi tesoro."

"Signora?" the sentry interrupted. He raised the lantern, silhouetting the couple in yellow light. "Your time is expired. I must escort you back now."

Lovino clutched Antonio tighter. The metal bars dug into his chest, but he didn't care. This was it, a pivotal point of the plan. Ignoring the guard, Lovino took Antonio's face in his hands and pulled him down into a desperate kiss. He opened his mouth, encouraging Antonio's tongue, which tasted sour. His lips were dry and cracked, but hot, as always. He sighed and moaned softly, mournfully, into Antonio's mouth, drawing the deepened kiss out for as long as possible. Vaguely, he heard the guard's voice telling him to stop, that it was time to go, but Lovino pretended not to notice. The theatrics were just for show, of course, which he exaggerated. He pawed hungrily at Antonio to distract the guard's attention from their locked lips. Just before he was physically pulled away, Lovino's tongue entered Antonio's mouth, pushing a tiny, metal lock-pick with it. "I _won't_ leave you," he gasped, relaying the message in secret. Then he was forced back, the guard having lost patience. Antonio played his role well, growling and trying to fight the guard as Lovino was pulled away. Lovino held Antonio's outreached hand for as long as possible before the guard dragged him away. Then the theatrics intensified as Lovino wailed loudly, calling-out for Antonio in farewell.

He was paraded back to the entrance, where Feliciano and Miguel were waiting. As they approached, Lovino realized that a small crowd had gathered around his brother, who was sitting on a stool looking faint. Miguel had hold of Feliciano's shoulders to keep him upright and was trying in vain to fend off advances from several concerned men.

"Your sorella took faint, m'lady," he said in explanation, indicating Feliciano. Lovino wondered for a moment if it was an act, until he saw the pallor of Feliciano's face. The boy wasn't faking; he really was sick. "These signori"—Miguel eyed the guards—"were kind enough to make a fuss."

"Lorenzo has gone to get wine and smelling-salts, Signora," said a guard kneeling by Feliciano's side. He looked to Lovino, expecting a reply.

"Grazie, signori," he said, taking the guard's place beside Feliciano. An exchange passed silently between the two brothers, speaking in coded facial expressions. Lovino frowned, eyes narrowed; Feliciano glared. Though ill, he was as determined as everyone else to see the plan succeed. He would no more abandon Antonio than Lovino would. Lovino was displeased—he wouldn't forgive himself if Feliciano got hurt—but he was grateful too. He leaned down, pretending to embrace his _sister_ , and whispered in his ear: "How long can you stall?"

Feliciano's breath tickled Lovino's cheek. "As long as you need."

Lovino straightened, putting on his best entitled-noble look. "Take me to the warden," he ordered. "Mia sorella is unwell and I would like for him to contact a doctor. Signori," he threatened, remembering to let his voice shake in grief, "please do not add to a poor signora's heartbreak. Mia sorella, please. I will not be able to contain my sorrow if she comes to harm. I will likely cry and cry— _and cry_ ," he emphasized, reading their discomfort, "until I have lost my voice or cast myself into the sea. I will be utterly inconsolable! And, oh! What will Padre say when he learns what transpired here? We're not even supposed to be here! What will he do to _you_ who caused our distress?!"

"Sì, of course, Signora! My deepest apologies!" said the guard in charge. "Worry not," he forced an appeasing smile, "I will take you to the warden myself. This way, if you please."

Lovino pressed the handkerchief to his lips, pretending to swoon in grief. But as he stepped back through the fort's entrance, he glanced over-the-shoulder at Feliciano and winked.

* * *

 **CARRIEDO**

Antonio counted to two-hundred, giving the guard a generous head-start, and then spit the lock-pick into his hand. Then he set to work on the cell's door. It was nearly pitch-black in the corridor, forcing him to rely on touch, not sight. The only light was a weak yellow glow coming from farther down the corridor, a torch on the wall. But Antonio's eyes were light-sensitive, having spent too long in the dark, and he found that he worked better by touch. His hands were usually deft at quick work, but, with his left hand broken and swollen beyond use, he had to pick the mechanism one-handed. His body ached and his head throbbed, but seeing Lovino's face had revitalized him.

Initially, he hadn't recognized Lovino. He hadn't expected the boy to be there, obviously. But when he finally did recognized the disguised boy through the cell's bars, Antonio had truly believed he was dreaming. Or dead. _That's it_ , _I'm dead_ , he thought in delirium. _The lashings killed me_ ; _I'm already dead_. But, while Lovino might have appeared like a Botticelli angel, he certainly did not sound like one. The Italian's angry voice had penetrated Antonio's brain like an axe splitting stone. At first, he had been gripped by fear. _Lovino shouldn't be here_ , _it's not safe_! Then an irrational anger had bubbled-up inside him, furious at the boy's placing himself in danger, but it was short-lived. Nothing could contend with the graciousness he had felt at getting to see Lovino one last time.

 _Click_. The lock released and Antonio's weight pushed the door open. It squealed, echoing in the silence and making him flinch. He leaned his shoulder against the cold wall for balance. Every move tore the wounds in his back, piercing his nerves, but he pressed on. He had been paraded back-and-forth for interrogation enough times to know which direction the courtyard was, from where he could scout the exit. He felt defenceless without a weapon, though he doubted he could wield a sword if he had one, and a pistol's fire would provoke alarm. His heart pounded hard as he climbed the stairwell, knowing there would be nowhere to hide if the guards entered; he would be trapped. But he needn't have worried. There seemed to be no guards patrolling the corridors. Even so, he was less inclined to believe in good-luck than he believed in Lovino. Whatever the Italian's plan was, it was working.

Antonio made it to the courtyard without incident, but had to immediately duck out of sight of two sanguine guards. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from hissing in pain as he hid behind a fortuitously parked wagon, and pressed a hand to his mouth and nose to quiet his panting. But, except for them, there was no one else in the vicinity, and they seemed rather distracted, discussing the "two beautiful signoras" and cursing their own bad-luck.

"A fucking fortnight I've been posted at that gate and not so much as a decrepit priest for weeks. But tonight, of course, I'm stuck in here," said one guard, indicating the courtyard. "I'd sell my fillings for a look at those girls."

"I heard that one of them fainted," said his partner, a wicked gleam in his eye.

Antonio felt a jolt of jealously, then panic. _Lovino_! he worried. _Did he— faint_? No. Lovino was a reckless boy, but his health wasn't weak. _Two girls_? he considered. It took his foggy brain longer than it should have to realize that the second _girl_ must be Feliciano in disguise. _Oh_ , _Lovino_ , _you didn't_! Knowing that Lovino had infiltrated the filthy, diseased fort was bad enough, but Feliciano's health was delicate. Antonio could vividly recall long, tiresome nights of rocking the child back to sleep after Feliciano had woken, terrified, from fever-dreams, shrieking and crying. _I used to sing to him_ , he remembered absently.

"I'm dead jealous of the men posted at the gate, getting to comfort her; touch her. I love a helpless maiden," the guard snickered.

"I wouldn't be so quick to call those two _maidens_ ," the first guard warned. "One of them, the hysterical one, was fucking the Spaniard until recently."

"More's the better."

They sauntered off with a bark of companionable laughter. Antonio resisted the urge to bludgeon them both from behind; it would be messy and invite unwanted attention. Plus, he didn't think he had the strength. _More's the pity_ , he thought, crawling out of hiding.

He doubled his pace, which was pitifully slow. The sooner he reunited with the Italians, the better for all of them. The need to protect them suddenly flooded his veins, reanimating his spirit if not his body. He had always thought it was his duty to protect the Italians, even before Francis had left, as if guarding Roma's precious grandsons would somehow repay Antonio's debt to him. Like the waves that break upon rocks, never reaching the palace above, Antonio had always been the first line-of-defense. He would have gladly risked himself to ensure their safety. But this time it wasn't his choice. This time, it was Lovino risking himself to save Antonio, which both infuriated the Spaniard, making him feel helpless, and made him more proud than he had ever thought possible. Never, even as a child, had he ever expected that anyone would risk themselves for him someday. Since forsaking Francis all those years ago, he had never thought he deserved to be saved. But now—

Antonio didn't know how or when it had changed, but he _did_ know why. It was love. And for the first time in his life, it was mutual.

* * *

 **VARGAS**

Lovino made short work of the guard. As soon as they were out of sight of the entrance—and re-enforcements—he slit his escort's throat. The hardest part had been removing his épée from the bulk of his heavy petticoats without drawing the man's attention to it. But the guard had been more focused on getting Lovino to the warden's office as quickly as possible to avoid future hysterics to notice the boy's attack until it was too late. Lovino struck like a snake, the razor-sharp blade slicing clean through the man's flesh at the base of his neck. After hiding the body, Lovino pulled off the dress, glad to be rid of the heavy, suffocating fabric. Underneath, he wore snug breeches and a shirt made skin-tight by the corset, which, try as he might, he could not get off unassisted. In defeat, he left it on and continued down the corridor with his épée cautiously outstretched. As long as he took the guards by surprise, he held the upper-hand. Of course, he wasn't intending to meet many of them face-to-face in the corridors: not as long as Feliciano kept the men occupied, drawing them like flies to honey.

Lovino followed the corridor until it opened into a rectangular courtyard. Based on Miguel's intelligence, he knew that there was an exit—a culvert—attached to the courtyard that led into the bay. He hoped Antonio had come to the same conclusion, knowing, as he did, how secure the fort otherwise was. It had been Antonio who had taught him how to infiltrate the weakest points of a stronghold; Lovino just hoped the same logic applied in reverse.

 _I know you_ , _Toni_ , Lovino thought as he surveyed the courtyard. It looked empty. _I know how you think._

Suddenly, he caught movement in the corner of his eye. "Toni!" he said, racing toward him. He leapt back to avoid a clumsy attack. Off-balance, the Spaniard spun to meet the threat he thought Lovino was. "Fuck! Toni, it's me!" Lovino snapped, blocking Antonio's fist. "It's okay, it's me," he repeated more softly, as if soothing a beast.

Antonio's body relaxed. "Lovi, I-I'm sorry—"

"Shut up," Lovino ordered. Carefully he wrapped Antonio's right arm around his shoulders, taking half of the Spaniard's weight in support. Even so, Antonio failed to smother a grunt. His body was bruised; swollen; broken. The boy tried not to look at Antonio's left hand, which was as plump and purple as a ripe plum, white veins popping-out; it looked like he was wearing an ugly glove. As they began to walk, Antonio leaned heavily on Lovino, who cringed every time Antonio did. "I'm sorry," he started, but Antonio said: "Shut up," and smiled ruefully.

"Here." Lovino stopped by a low-lying gate. It was well-hidden. If they hadn't been looking for the culvert, it would have been invisible. "I need both hands, Toni. Just hold on, okay?"

Gently, he helped Antonio sit. The Spaniard braced himself against the wall and closed his eyes.

"Toni?" Lovino said in concern. Antonio didn't reply until Lovino touched his cheek (avoiding a pink wound that looked like a burn). He murmured a sleepy "Mm hmm" and leaned into the boy's hand. Lovino felt a stab of guilt for pulling back, but they didn't have time for sentiment. _We've got to get out of here_ , he thought, refocusing on the culvert. From his belt, he took a hooked tool and started freeing the nails from the iron latch, sweating as he worked each one loose. He tried to be as quiet as possible, but the banging and clanging of metal-on-metal was sure to attract attention in the otherwise silent courtyard. "Just a few more," he whispered to Antonio, who didn't move. He twisted his slight body, using his weight as leverage to force the nails out. Every time one freed, his heart lightened, knowing they were that much closer to escape. "Just one more," he said, wiping sweat from his forehead. He forced the tool beneath the nail-head and jerked it. Antonio was the one who had taught Lovino how to do it; a blacksmith's trick, he had said. It fell out just as a bell pealed loudly from a tower overhead.

"Fuck!" Lovino cursed. He had hoped to be further along in escape—preferably aboard _El Escape_ —before the alarm was sounded. _They must've found the guard's body_ , he thought, regretting his choice of hiding spot. And if they had found the corpse then they had doubtlessly found the Lovino's disguise. It placed Feliciano in immediate danger, because either her _sister_ was wandering around the fort naked, or both of them were not who they were pretending to be. Lovino could only hope that Miguel had gotten Feliciano to safety before the alarm tolled, as planned.

"Hey! Hold it there!" someone shouted.

Lovino spun on his heel, his épée poised in defense. Two guards charged at him, lifting two swords in attack. Lovino had often pictured himself in a real swordfight, not just at practise. He had always fancied himself as a sort of hero dispatching villains, looking dashing while doing it. He had rarely considered the real-life application of what he had been taught, like how important balance and footwork were; or timing; or instinct. But as the guards' blades came down, Lovino's body moved without conscious volition. He dodged, leaping sideways, drawing attention to himself to protect Antonio, and then attacked in a flurry of light strikes that disoriented the guards and left them chasing him. _This is— easy_! Lovino realized, parrying each blow. After years of dueling Antonio, who was as swift a swordsman as he was strong, the guards were slow. Layers of leather and steel armour disabled them as much as it protected them and weighed them down. "What's wrong? Tired, old man?" Lovino insulted them. He couldn't help it. He grinned like a prowling wolf, readying to corner its prey. He leapt onto a wagon and delivered a fatal blow. One of the guards fell, his throat cut. The other staggered back. To Lovino's wolf eyes he looked like a creature ready to die. He propelled himself from the wagon, pouncing at his prey—then balked.

As his body tried to stretch, the corset constricted on his lungs and he crashed to the ground, gasping for air. The guard saw the opening and swung his sword, but it clanged off steel. _Sha-ring_!

"¡Que te den!" Antonio yelled. He had grabbed the dead guard's sword and used it to block the attack.

Quickly, Lovino knocked off his opponent's helm and stabbed the épée clean through the man's neck. Then, without a backwards glance, he thrust the épée's hilt into Antonio's right hand and turned. "Get it off me!" he begged, hands braced on his knees. The corset laces pulled taut. "Cut it off, I can't breathe!"

"Hold still," Antonio advised. Lovino felt each lace snap as the blade sliced the corset's back open. He gasped and his lungs filled with full, deep breaths. He had not realized how dizzy he was, starved of oxygen. In retribution, he pulled the undergarment off and stomped on it, while lifting his shirt to assess the damage. The bone had dug grooves into his skin where it had constricted his waist, forcing it into an unnatural shape. It had been so tight that Antonio's hands could have easily encircled the boy's whole waist. "Lovi—?" he said in concern.

Lovino paid him a rueful grin. "Come on," he said, taking the Spaniard's weight.

The threatening sound of metal boots was getting closer; a patrol of armed guards was approaching. Quickly, Lovino hobbled to the culvert's grate. He tugged it, expecting it to swing open on its hinges, but it didn't. He grabbed the bars one-handed and shook it violently, but the iron barely rattled.

"Lovi—!" Antonio gasped frantically.

"There they are!" someone shouted.

"Fuck!" Lovino cursed. "There's a fucking latch on the inside! I can't fucking reach it!" He stretched, trying to squeeze his fingers through the crease, but it was useless. It was too narrow, too deep.

"Lovi, leave it! We have to go!"

In desperation, Antonio retrieved a sword from the corpse's chest cavity. He pushed himself up, wavering as he stepped around Lovino, standing back-to-back with the Italian. It was a defensive-stance. It was protective. _Fuck_! Lovino thought as fear bombarded the panic-centre of his brain. _He's doing it again_! _Toni's half-dead_ , _but he's still trying to protect me_! "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" he snarled, slamming his fist against the metal (bruising it; his fist, not the metal). He clenched his épée's hilt. _Why am I so fucking useless_?! _Why can't I_ —

"A-AH!"

Antonio knocked Lovino aside as the patrol of guards attacked. He took a sword-tip to the forearm, making him howl in pain—and ire. His green eyes lit like a funeral pyre, burning with a sudden, uncontrollable, unquenchable rage. Recklessly, he threw himself at the guards. He growled and slashed wickedly, off-balance and panting; he cried-out when he, inevitably, got hit and cut. Lovino cried-out in reply as the Spaniard shielded him with his injured body. A gunshot sounded from the fort's ramparts, but, fortunately, it missed its target. He watched wide-eyed as the pirate went berserk, teeth clenched and splattered in fresh blood—his own blood. Lovino felt like he was living a nightmare: he was literally watching the man he loved be killed.

"No, _Toni_!" Lovino clenched his épée and pushed himself to his knees. _If we're dying_ , _we're dying together_!

Swords clashed, steel-on-steel producing a harsh ring. Lovino was forced back as he struck, trying and failing to protect Antonio from a blow. He nearly lost his weapon as it was harmlessly deflected. It was too small. Against two guards his skill was passable; against a whole patrol it was useless. His back hit the culvert grate and an embarrassing squeak escaped him. He coughed, winded. But it gave him an idea.

 _Please let this work_! _Please—dear God in Heaven—let this fucking work_!

Recklessly, he shoved his épée's thin blade through the narrow crease. It slid through unobstructed, reaching the latch inside. He yanked upward and felt the latch release. Too afraid to feel anything except relief, he pushed hard and the culvert grate swung heavily open. _Toni_! He whipped around, spotting Antonio, who was being forced back. He was slowing; failing. Despite his wild eyes, he had reached his end. He dropped the sword. He staggered—

—Lovino caught him. But instead of trying to fight the onslaught of guards that rushed them, Lovino tore the wooden rod from the wagon wheel's spoke, releasing it, then dove back, dragging Antonio with him. The heavily laden wagon lurched forward over the uneven ground, blocking their retreat and crashing into two guards in the process. It happened fast—the guards recovered fast—but it gave Lovino enough time to slam the culvert's grate closed behind he and Antonio, re-latching it. One of the guards grabbed the bars, shaking it; another tried to do as Lovino had and slide his sword's blade into the crease, but it was too thick. It got stuck, slowing their pursuit. Lovino barely acknowledged it. His entire being was running on adrenalin and only focused on one thing: saving Antonio.

"Come on, just a little further. Just a few more feet," Lovino panted as he struggled on his hands-and-knees, half-carrying, half-dragging Antonio.

" _Lovi..._ " Antonio's voice was weak, barely a whisper.

They reached the exit as gunshots started firing, bouncing off the stonewalls, but Lovino didn't even flinch. It was high above the water, but, fortunately, there were no (visible) rocks at the bottom. Lovino paused briefly, looking down into the frothing waves. The water looked like sludge; it was dark-grey and opaque. A thick fog hung low on the surface. "I'm sorry," Lovino said as he pulled Antonio onto his back. He was heavy. The Spaniard moaned, only half-conscious. "I'm so sorry, Toni, please don't die. And please don't hate me for this."

He dove into the water below.

* * *

Lovino's head bobbed above the water, gasping. He knew he was exhausting his strength kicking and treading-water, but it was the only way he could hold Antonio—who had blacked-out—above the surface. _Come on_ , _Jorge_! he begged. _Where are you_? _Where is_ El Escape?! A wave crashed over his head. He swallowed a mouthful of seawater as he tried to keep Antonio from drowning. The pirate ship was supposed to be waiting to rescue them from the water, but it was nowhere in sight. Not that Lovino could see anything in the fog and darkness and blinded by cold seawater. _At least the searchlights haven't spotted us_ , he thought, but they couldn't hide forever. _Help_. Lovino could feel himself sinking as he propelled himself slowly through the water, secretly grateful that Antonio had taught him (forced him) to swim. He stayed as close to shore as he dared, but the rocks were slick and offered no support. They only scraped Lovino's skin. _Help. Somebody help us_ —

He couldn't do it. He was spent. He was done.

Desperately he grabbed a fortuitously low-hanging tree branch and lifted himself up. Then he hung there, his thin arm trembling as wave after wave crashed over him. He re-position Antonio, letting his body's natural buoyancy and the saltwater hold him up. The Spaniard's head rested on Lovino's shoulder, which bobbed just above the water's surface. "I-I-I— I'm sorry, Toni." A single tear rolled down his cheek, makeup smeared and running down his face. He turned his head and pressed his lips to Antonio's brow, kissing him. "I'm so sorry," he said weakly. "Ti amo."

Then he rested his cheek atop his love's crown.

And he closed his eyes.

* * *

Feliciano cried when the crew pulled Lovino and Antonio out of the longboat onto _El Escape_. A lookout in the crow's nest had spotted them, clinging to the shoreline a fair distance from the fort; far enough to escape the spotlights. _Did Lovino really swim so far_ —? The elder Vargas had always been the better swimmer; Feliciano had been too afraid to learn how. Miguel had had to pry Lovino's ice-cold fingers from a tree branch before hauling he and Antonio into the longboat. Feliciano's stomach clenched as he watched, hanging dangerously over the bulkhead as they approached. He felt sick with worry. A high-pitched squeak escaped him as they lifted Lovino's unconscious body onto the deck and began trying to revive him. Jorge had to physically prevent Feliciano from throwing himself hysterically onto his older brother. "Is he dead?" he sobbed in fear. When they confirmed that Lovino was alive, he sobbed in relief.

"And Antonio—?"

Miguel lowered his gaze. "He's alive, but just. He probably won't survive the night."

"He will survive," said Feliciano, but he sounded braver than he felt. He was shaking. He stared down at the prostrate Spaniard, who looked like a drowned corpse. Lovino lay beside him, being tended to by what passed for the pirate crew's physician (and barber). Slowly, the colour was returning to the Italian's face. As the injured captain and exhausted lordling were relocated to Antonio's private cabin, Feliciano followed. He spent a _very_ long, tiresome night going between Antonio and Lovino's beds, doing everything he could—which was precious little—and worrying about the future of his two closest friends. At dawn, Lovino finally stirred. Feliciano knelt by his bedside, talking softly to his brother as Lovino registered his surroundings. "It's okay, Lovi. You did it. Your plan worked, we're safe," he said. But Lovino wouldn't be distracted from Antonio. Gingerly he crawled out of his bed, wordlessly crossed the short distance, and climbed into the Spaniard's bed. Feliciano felt the bite of grief as Lovino laid down beside Antonio, careful of his injuries, and closed his eyes. Lovino would stay there until Antonio awoke or was pronounced dead, Feliciano knew, his hand resting gently over Antonio's heart.

 _El Escape_ returned to the hidden inlet within the first hour of escape, but Feliciano stayed aboard until noon the following day. He knew his absence would not go unnoticed at the Vargas' house, but he didn't care. Even though the physician (and barber) confirmed that Lovino's health had fully recovered, Feliciano faithfully stayed by his side. _Lovi's body may be healed_ , _but his heart won't be unless Toni survives._

Antonio's death would completely destroy Lovino. Both of the Vargas brothers knew it, and both, it seemed, had accepted it.

Eventually, Miguel knocked.

"Little lord," he said as kindly as possible. " _El Escape_ needs to leave."

Feliciano wanted to argue, but knew he couldn't. _El Escape_ had already lingered too long. "Sì, I understand."

He sat down on the edge of Antonio's bed and touched Lovino's shoulder. "Lovi—?" he said softly. The elder Vargas murmured sleepily before he slowly opened his eyes. It took him a minute to focus on Feliciano's face. "I have to go home, Lovi," he said, fraternally brushing back Lovino's fringe.

Lovino's eyes shifted to Miguel, whose shadow leaned in the cabin's doorway. In effort, he pushed himself up into a sitting position and wrapped his arms around his younger brother. Feliciano hugged him tightly in return. "I'm not coming with you," he said.

There was no question in his voice; no room for argument.

Feliciano said: "I know. I'll miss you, fratello. And Toni," he added, conveying his faith in Antonio's recovery. "Promise you'll visit?" he asked. He felt Lovino nod. "Be safe, Lovi."

A tear rolled down Feliciano's rosy cheek.

"Be happy."

Just as he was leaving, Lovino's breathless voice stopped him.

" _Toni_!" he whispered. As he leaned down over the Spaniard, the Italian ex-lordling had eyes for nothing and no one else. Nothing mattered except for Antonio, whose emerald-green eyes looked vibrant in the bright afternoon sun. " _Oh_ , _Toni_ ," Lovino cried. And weakly—voice raw and cracked and almost inaudible— Antonio replied:

" _Lovi_."

Feliciano left the cabin quietly, smiling as he did.


	8. Epilogue

**DISCLAIMER:** **Hetalia: Axis Powers** **– Hidekaz Himaruya**

 **SPANISH GOLD**

* * *

 **EPILOGUE**

 **COAST OF SPAIN**

 **1739**

It was early-morning and bright yellow sunlight filtered in through the diamond-shaped windowpanes, bathing the captain's bed in summer's hot kiss. Antonio gazed down at the beautiful sixteen-year-old boy lying beside him in nothing but the Spaniard's threadbare shirt, which was too big for him. He admired the way it hung off the boy's artful body, revealing a dangerous amount of sun-kissed thigh. Antonio swallowed. _How did this even happen to me_? he wondered. _This wasn't supposed to happen. I was supposed to leave Italy behind forever—all of it._ He glanced at Lovino's peaceful face. He looked young and vulnerable, but Antonio knew he wasn't. Lovino had proven himself as a capable seaman (and pirate); had accomplished what nobody else could; and had earned the loyalty of the crew, who respected him as more than just a cabin-boy or the captain's lover, but as a man. Antonio smiled, fighting the urge to touch Lovino. And failed. _I shouldn't be feeling this way_ , he thought absently, but the sentiment was hollow. Any guilt that resurfaced was fleeting. He loved Lovino. He always had, in one way or another. And that's all that mattered.

It had been three months since _El Escape_ left Italy and returned to the relative safety of the Spanish coast. It had been a slow, cautious journey; they travelled only at night. But Antonio had been unconscious for most of the first month, and too engulfed by Lovino for the second to be much use as captain. The boy had stayed by Antonio's side for the duration of his long, painful recovery. He had done his best to make Antonio as comfortable as possible, yet had proved to be a strict nurse. His determination to keep Antonio alive and healthy had been unyielding: keeping him on bed-rest, feeding him and forcing foul-tasting medicine down his throat, and growling nastily at unhelpful—and often vulgar—suggestions from the crew. Lovino's resolve, his authority, would not be broken, not even when Antonio grew strong enough to give orders. Lovino simply ignored him; not as a stubborn child, but as a self-confidant man. "Would you please just lie down and let me take care of you, you bastardo?!" he snapped.

"I'm not leaving," he had said early-on.

The day Antonio had opened his eyes was the day that Lovino made his intentions clear:

"I think I've proven myself, don't you? I think I've proven that you need me just as much as I need you, Toni. I think you want me here just as much as I want to be, so I'm not leaving."

For a minute, Antonio had wanted to argue, but the feeling quickly dissolved. _I'm finished lying to myself_ , he decided. Honesty, he resolved, would be his new policy (at least where Lovino was concerned). Despite Antonio's wild fighting-style, his uncontrollable berserker-like tendency, it was Lovino who had saved him; Lovino who had planned and carried out the plan; who had commanded a ship full of pirates; who had had the physical and emotional strength not to give-up. Antonio had never been so proud. "Perhaps we'll make a pirate of you yet, chiquito," he had teased. His body ached, but he reached up and cupped Lovino's cheek.

In reply, Lovino covered Antonio's hand with his, pressing himself closer. "I'll be whatever you want, Toni," he said tenderly, "just don't send me away again."

"No," Antonio agreed. "I promise, Lovino. I won't be making that mistake again."

It had been nearly four years since Antonio had found the Italian boy stowed-away in his cabin: four years of constant stress.

 _You're not supposed to be here_ , _Lovino_ , he thought now, watching the boy sleep. Gently, he finger-combed the boy's silky, chocolate-brown hair off his face. _It would be so much easier if you weren't. Easier_ , _but not nearly as interesting— or worth living._ "You're my gold, Lovino," he whispered, letting his lips tickle the Italian's ear. "You're my most precious treasure."

"And you're a bastardo," Lovino mumbled sleepily. His lips curled into a hesitant grin and he rolled onto his back, looking up at Antonio. "But," he added, flattening his hands against Antonio's bare chest, his heart, "Ti amo.

"Ti amo molto," he repeated, pulling Antonio down into a kiss. "Io ti amo sempre." _I will always love you_.

Antonio crawled between Lovino's slender legs, sliding his hands beneath the old shirt as he kissed him. The boy's skin was warm and soft and _so_ inviting. "I don't deserve you," he murmured, then flinched: " _Ow_ —!"

Lovino had nipped him in disagreement. "Shut up," he said, a threat lurking beneath the surface of his voice.

In defeat, Antonio pressed his forehead to Lovino's. "I can't give you the life you deserve, you know."

"Just give me you, Toni. You're all I want." Lovino kissed him; once, twice. "You're all I've _ever_ wanted."

Antonio growled playfully in arousal. "You're young," he said huskily. He lowered his head to Lovino's neck, sucking the skin. The boy moaned in response, tensing as his back arched. "You don't know what you want, chiquito."

"I want you," Lovino said breathlessly as Antonio's hands seized him. His fingers curled into claws, clutching the Spaniard's shoulders as he whined and wriggled, trying to simultaneously escape and indulge in Antonio's careful ministrations. He nipped Lovino's flushed skin, leaving visible marks. The old, threadbare shirt fell to the floor, which left Lovino stark-naked and defenceless. Unabashed, he wrapped his arms tightly around Antonio, pulling him closer. Antonio teased the boy's cock, sliding his nimble hands from knee to hip and back in bitter-sweet torment. He could feel himself responding to Lovino's body, the boy's tomato-red face and his lips parted in an O of arousal. He felt his own cock swelling, hardening in preparation. His trousers soon joined the old shirt on the floor, leaving them skin-to-skin, and, finally, Lovino stopped _fighting_. He gasped: "Toni, I want you— _now_. _Always._ "

"Sí, mi tesoro," Antonio said, kissing him. _Anything you want. I'd give you the whole world if you asked_ , _because—_ "Te quiero."

 _I love you._

* * *

 **FIN**

 **THANK-YOU for reading. Reviews are always welcome and appreciated :)**

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Thank-you so much to everyone who has read and enjoyed _Spanish Gold_ , despite my months-long delays. Your support (and reviews!) is wonderful and greatly appreciated. I hope you had as much fun reading _Spanish Gold_ as I had writing it.

Cheers,

Shadowcatxx


End file.
